


Mistress of the Stacks

by Ms_Anthrop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Community: sshg_giftfest, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, HP: EWE, Healing, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Library, Injury Recovery, Innuendo, Life Debt, Mysteries in the Library, Old Kingdom Mythology, Oral Sex, Returning Home, Romance, Second Chances, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wards and Protective Magic, dual timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9816086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Anthrop/pseuds/Ms_Anthrop
Summary: An archaic danger is rampaging through the Hogwarts Library, and it's up to Headmaster Snape and Mistress Granger to solve the mystery in the stacks. But can they overcome their contentious history to fix the problem, or is history doomed to repeat itself? An expanded version written for Irishredlass as a part of the 2014 LJ SSHG Giftfest. Rated E for violence & adult situations.





	1. In the Beginning, and At the End

_This story is the expanded and revised version of what I wrote for the 2014 SSHG LJ Giftfest as a present to Irishredlass; my prompt was 'I would love to see a fic where Hermione has to be Snape's voice because his is gone from Nagini. He is not receptive and they have to learn to work together leading to more,' and 'I am an angst girl'._

_The always-lovely Muggle Jane beta'd the initial version of this, and delphismith also provided a much needed second check. I want to extend my thanks to the mods and all of the participants of the Giftfest for making it such a rewarding experience.  
_

_This story was not just inspired by the works of J.K. Rowling, but also Garth Nix's wonderful Old Kingdom series- no copyright infringement intended, and alas, no money is being made. Comments and constructive criticisms are always accepted, however :P_

_Finally, the style of this was a bit of departure for me. There are two distinct timelines, so make sure that you are reading the datelines or matters will be more than a little confusing._

* * *

_**Chapter 1** _

_**11 June, 2009** _

Professor Snape stood silently in her bright office, a black-robed figure constituting a life-sized Rorschach test.

What would she see in his vulpine form?

Would it be the so-called greasy dungeon bat of her childhood? A brilliant professor, to be sure, and in his uniquely sadistic way, an excellent teacher. As a Hogwarts institution, impossible to please no matter how much effort was exerted. A prejudicial promoter of all things Slytherin with an avowed disdain for her leonine pride.

Or perhaps among the onyx she would spy the constantly-doubted double-agent; someone heinously, horribly used by friends and enemies alike. The villainous murderer of Saint Dumbledore, the Brutus to Voldemort's Caesar. A hated, hateful man, yet in the end motivated by love and acting in atonement.

Maybe she would sight the man who had almost bled out in front of her on a wooden floor. His battered and emaciated body had lain comatose in St. Mungo's for six long weeks, as the politicians and public fought over his fate. Some days, he was a saviour. On others, an albatross.

What she was afraid of seeing, however, was not the teacher, or spy, but what came after. The man. A distillation who was both more dangerous and more vulnerable; an unstable combination that quite nearly proved to be her undoing. Her unwilling lab partner. A man who had belittled and berated her for months, and then when she had finally decided to leave, had cornered her and snogged her senseless.

Hermione stepped into her office, and prepared to do battle.

* * *

**_28 May, 1998_ **

He was free.

There had been no great white light or advancing tunnel; his life had not flashed past before his eyes.

Instead, things had literally ended with a whimper. And now? Now Severus was swimming in a swirling, liminal darkness, his neck throbbing in fiery time with a waning heartbeat. Vaguely, he could feel the worn and splintered wood floor under him, covered with a cloying, sticky layer of his slowly coagulating blood. A final benediction, if you will.

But he was free; gloriously, wonderfully free, and had been cut loose from his chains of debt and atonement the moment he'd given Potter his memories. For the first time since he was sixteen, no life debt weighed on his soul, and he could make choices based on what he wanted, not on what was owed.

And he wanted... what? There was a part of him- the pitiful remains of a poor northern boy forced to listen to far too many sermons on fire and brimstone - that still feared what might happen after. His closet, after all, held so many skeletons that it was standing room only. He very much doubted that any pearly gates would ever open for him.

But he also did not believe that any divinely created hell could rival the one of his own making, so there was that.

He had just settled on dying when he was oh-so-rudely drawn back to waking by a feminine form leaning over him, her healing magic ghosting between them like the last flickers of an Aurora Borealis. The burning blood in his eyes made it impossible to focus his gaze, and fleetingly, he wondered who she was. She had a corona of messy brown curls, and what he could see of her bruised and battered face was somehow both familiar and unwanted.

"Professor?" the woman - or rather, girl - asked tremulously. "It'll be alright now. I've summoned the medics, and Professor McGonagall. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. Just hang in there a little longer."

Her magic, lambent and warm, slipped under his skin and sunk deep into his bones. For a moment, the connection taking root felt like a welcome embrace as it wrapped securely around his body. But slowly, insidiously, the tendrils tightened, thickened, and he felt the beginning of dread begin to awaken within him. He wasn't being helped, he was being bound by a life debt... again.

 _Foolish, stupid, interfering girl_ , he thought as he slid back into the abyss. It was angry resentment, not gratitude that chased him down.

* * *

_**13 November, 1998** _

Six months later, that resentment had transformed into a burning and volatile rancour. It had also gotten him kicked out of St. Mungo's. Never mind that Snape could do little more than linger about in bed about like a festering carbuncle; he had worn out his welcome and was being dispatched back to Hogwarts post-haste.

Returning to the Castle would have been a bitter pill to swallow, assuming of course, that he could have swallowed. But even that little luxury was out of the question. He was alive, but it was a stretch to call his current condition living.

He could walk enough to get out of bed and get to the lav, and he could once again dress himself if given enough time. That was the sum total of his recovery. Nagini's venom had done a thorough job of destroying his fine motor skills, and the bite itself had nearly destroyed the nerves and general structures of his neck. Eating and drinking were completely out of the question; so was speaking, although that did not prohibit him from communicating. Snape was rather proud of how much nuance he could convey with his two-fingered salute- but his voice, his one vanity, was gone, perhaps forever.

Those were minor quibbles, however, as compared to muscle spasms that regularly racked his body throughout the day. Whilst the pain was a shadow compared to the Cruciatus curse, it was still bad enough that he blacked out several times a week, and he almost never was able to sleep through the night without being woken up by the creeping onset of agony.

The Healers posited that his continued illness was due to the fact that they had yet to neutralize the remnants of Nagini's venom that lingered in muscles and joints. But as the snake was dead, it was impossible to brew any further antivenin... and short of creating said synthetic antivenin, he was stuck in a twilight of endless pain and resentment.

It had taken him several months to find out who his erstwhile saviour had been; his memories of the day were hazy at best. Minerva had inadvertently let it slip that Hermione Granger had been the one to go back to the Shrieking Shack and drag his not-quite-dead corpse to St. Mungo's, and he cursed the blasted girl every time he felt a spasm coming on. He did not think anyone else - including the bushy-haired wonder herself - realized that she had created a life debt that night, and he intended to keep it that way. _And now,_ he thought snidely, _your prodigal self gets to return to the scene of the crime. Assuming, of course, that Minerva ever gets here..._

With nothing else to do, he did what he had been doing for last several months; he sat, and he raged over his impotent existence. At half-past nine, Minerva finally bustled into the room in a red-hot flurry of Scottish indignation and tartan. A hospital matron and a Ministry lackey were hot on her heels, and he almost pitied them for her reaction if they did not immediately bend to her will.

"Severus, are you ready?" she asked shortly. He gave her a terse nod in return.

"Madam, I'm afraid you don't understand the gravity of the situation..." the Ministry man began, before Minerva silenced him with a steely glare long practised on generations of Hogwarts' pupils.

"You will address me by my proper title of Headmistress, Mr. Harbaugh, not madam. Is that understood?" The man shut his mouth with an audible click, and Minerva continued. "Now, unless you have a written order from Kingsley remanding Professor Snape into Ministry custody, he will be returning with me to Hogwarts. I do not give a fig that his judicial status has yet to be resolved; that is your problem, not mine. As the Wizengamot has not seen fit to either charge or convict him on any counts, there is no reason for him to be in any sort of government custody."

"But Headmistress... the man is a murderer," Harbaugh stuttered. "The public..."

"The public can go hang for all I care. As for the rest," she said, voice gone heavy with anger, "...I would have killed Albus Dumbledore myself had I known what he was planning. You will hardly find me a sympathetic audience to any claims of murder." The man gaped at this blasphemy, and even the matron appeared taken aback at the heated statement.

As Harbaugh took a half-hearted, shuffling step towards Snape, Minerva unceremoniously drew her wand. Severus found himself smirking for the first time in months. There were advantages to allowing hot-headed Gryffindors to lead the charge; that Minerva was exerting this much effort on his behalf was only a bonus.

"Take one step closer, Mr. Harbaugh, and I shall permanently transfigure you into something truly unfortunate."

The man said nothing to the challenge, rendered absolutely dumbfounded. Minerva, taking advantage of the silence, stuck her hand out to the duty matron, who wordlessly gave over Severus' discharge papers.

"Shall we?" Minerva asked, extending her other arm to him. As gracefully as he could manage, he rose from the chair and took her arm. The tightening of her hand on his was the only warning that he received before she Apparated the two of them to the gates of Hogwarts.

* * *

_**16 November, 1998** _

Three days later, it was he who was the recipient of her considerable ire.

Over his vociferous objections, Minerva had forbidden him access to his lab with the rationale that he would only hurt himself; he had promptly disregarded her edict, reasoning instead that he would not get well without coming up with a synthetic substitute for the antivenin.

Naturally, he'd been wrong.

One minute, he had been in his lab, trying to light a cauldron... and the next he'd found himself sprawled about on the stone floor, having very nearly cracked open his skull on the flagstones after a particularly fierce spasm.

But unbeknownst to him, Minerva had sicced the house elves on his sorry carcass, and one of the ruddy creatures had sounded the alarm after his tumble. When he had finally come to, it was to find one worried face - that of Poppy Pomfrey - and one furious face – Minerva - hovering over him.

"Severus, I understand that you are frustrated, truly, I do... but you must be reasonable about this." Poppy's calm tones cut through Minerva's ongoing, shrill, diatribe. "Pushing yourself will only result in further injury... patience is the key..."

The frustrations and fears of the previous months finally boiled over. Struggling into a sitting position on the bed, Snape cut the Healer and Headmistress off with a rude gesture.

 _NO!_ he mentally shouted at the both of them. It didn't matter that neither woman was an Occlumens, or even remotely telepathic; he put enough force into the thought that they heard him. _NO, I WON'T. I WON'T SIT HERE ANY LONGER. I WON'T LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE._

Vaguely, he became aware that he had started crying, rather messily, and that only made him more furious. _I CAN'T EAT. I CAN'T SLEEP. I CAN'T DO ANYTHING. I CAN'T EVEN PROTECT MYSELF. I AM UTTERLY USELESS. IF THIS IS WHAT THE REST OF MY LIFE IS GOING TO BE LIKE, THEN I DON'T WANT IT!_

"Severus..." Minerva began, the ire in her continuance transforming into something like pity.

 _NO,_ he repeated. _I WON'T. I'D RATHER DIE THAN LIVE LIKE THIS ANY MORE. EITHER YOU LET ME TRY TO FIX MYSELF, OR YOU LET ME END IT._

Both of the women flinched at the helpless rage in implicit his mental tone, and he found himself falling back onto the pillows, breathing hard from the small effort of sitting up. Then the long muscles of back and legs seized the opportunity to cramp, and then it was all he could do not to scream in silent agony as the contractions rippled through him.

When the spell finally ended, he found himself covered in a clammy sweat, shaking, as Poppy and Minerva each massaged a leg. Mutely, he gazed up at Minerva, daring her to say anything containing the words "positive" or "patience".

"You can't," she choked out, and he would have gladly throttled the woman if he could have gotten his hands around her neck.

"You can't do it on your own, that much is clear," she continued, and hesitated briefly. "You need to work with someone, and even then I'm not sure..." She and Poppy gazed at each other over the width of his bed, unspoken knowledge travelling back and forth between their gazes.

It was Poppy that finally broke the silence. "I'm not a researcher, nor am I much of a brewer... Severus, I know you aren't fond of the girl... but Hermione is the only one in this Castle with the skills and the time to help you."

 _Like hell I will work with her,_ he thought savagely. Snagging the end of the bed sheet from where it dangled from the mattress, he began to twist it as the two women looked on in mounting confusion. His madness gave him the adrenaline boost needed to complete the task; with a spectre of his old dexterity, he tied the final knot and presented it to his companions with a flourish.

It was a noose.

Given the high thread count of the sheets, he rather thought that the crudely fashioned object might actually function as more than a rhetorical device. For the first time in days, he felt a measure of satisfaction. One way or another, his days of lying about in a bed were numbered.


	2. A Mystery Unfolds

_**11 June 2009** _

Snape was being a civil cipher, the bloody bastard.

Hermione had expected - nay, had hoped - to confront an angry man, the one who carried about the faint whiff of dynamite and burned bridges. Instead, a quiet-voiced, solemn stranger stood in her office and began dispensing the proper formalities as if all the history between them simply did not exist. In retaliation, she'd offered him tea and some of her old, overly dry biscuits - that was the proper English thing to do, after all, and she'd be damned if his manners would be any better than hers - and was waiting for him to state his purpose for coming to the Magical Branch of the British Library.

"I imagine you've been wondering why I requested to speak with you," he finally stated. She could read nothing in his body language, and his gaze, seen through the faint steam of freshly brewed Earl Grey, was frustratingly opaque.

"I imagine you have a reason," she replied, refusing to give any ground.

He looked down at his tea for a endless moment, and Hermione resisted the urge toss her own cup at him. _Must the man always make me feel like a stroppy, hormonal youth?_

"There has been an incident at Hogwarts."

"How utterly... shocking."

Hermione thought she saw something - black humour, perhaps? - flash through his expression at her quick retort. "Most students make it through their Hogwarts years rather more unscathed then you did."

"Pity I was not like most students, then." She kept her tone dry and free of the bitterness that threatened to well up and choke her. "Perhaps it would have saved me from getting hurt."

His face shifted slightly, eyes hardening and the fine muscles along his jaw tightening, and Hermione hoped she'd finally started to anger him; it was no fun if only one of them were mad. "It would have been a pity had you been like most students, Hermione." The low rumble of his voice - a shade smokier than the silky tones of her youth - made the fine hairs along the back of her neck stand to attention.

It was the deliberate use of her first name, however, that pushed her temper to the brink. _Damn you, Severus Snape. Never once did you use it before, and now you presume to take that liberty?_ "What, precisely, does this current issue at Hogwarts have to do with me?" she fairly spat.

"Because it has to do with the Library, and by extension, our new librarian. Given your profession," and he gestured around her office, "and your connection to Hogwarts, it seemed that you would be the best possible person to provide us with badly needed answers." He leaned forward and placed his cup upon the flower-rimmed saucer, the feminine pattern only emphasizing the masculine grace of his hands. "Two nights ago, something happened, or was let loose, in the Library. It was bad enough to set off the Castle wards and send a rather strong backlash through them. By the time Minerva and myself were able to get into the Library, Noémi Morel - that's our new librarian - had been knocked unconscious and dragged pell-mell through the stacks. We've been unable to enter the restricted section entirely, and whatever dark magic is at play is continuing to wreak havoc on the Castle wards."

Mind racing over the possibilities, Hermione strove to recall the pertinent details of the Hogwarts Library's protections. As the collection was not only huge, but contained the largest dark magic section outside of the British Library's own, they were considerable. Irma Pince, for all she'd been a grumpy, anal-retentive harridan, had been a supremely powerful witch and well able to keep the collection under her firm control... which left only one possible cause for the sudden mayhem.

"Is the librarian still unconscious?" Hermione asked, dreading the answer.

"Yes," Snape confirmed grimly. "Neither Poppy nor the Healers we summoned could find anything wrong with her other than the obvious bumps and bruises."

 _Surely, it can't be..._ she thought with growing horror. _A collection of that size? It could take the school down!_ "When did Madame Pince die?"

"Almost four years ago."

"And how soon was Mistress Morel able to take over?"

"It took almost six months for us to hire someone. Noémi just completed her third year. " His stare was measuring, with a thread of weary resignation wound through. "You know what happened, don't you?"

"Yes, I believe I do. It's... not good."

"Explain." He softened the order. "Please."

"You are aware, of course, that books of a magical nature both create and syphon off magic." At his curt nod, she went on. "To use a Muggle phrase, nature abhors a vacuum, and when one places many books - or any type of construct, really - of a magical nature together, they tend to feed off each other."

"As I have a rather large personal library myself, I am familiar with the concept."

"In smaller collections, the laying of basic wards is normally enough to control the access and flow of magic, both in and out of the collection," Hermione said. "Given enough time, however, or a large enough collection, the books tend to develop a bit of a... hive mind, you might say, or even stretching so far to become a semi-sentient awareness. Add the other oddments of normal library - enchanted objects, antiques, art, tools, even textiles - and you suddenly have not only quite a large source of magic, but also of raw potential." She paused, wondering if he was following her rather mundane explanation to the logical conclusion.

"A good librarian - that is to say, a fully trained Mistress or Master of the Stacks - has not only the magical strength of will to bind the collection to him or herself, but also is skilled enough to construct a warding system that allows the magical energy created by the collection to be bled off in the wider protections of the building. This also prevents the collection from getting unruly... when done correctly, it substantially increases the safety and passive protections of the building; St. Mungo's is the perfect example of a proper warding; even during the days of Voldemort's reign, he was unable to defeat the protections of the building to get at the patients or staff. When done incorrectly, or when a librarian doesn't have the strength of will to bind the collection... well, I believe you are familiar with what happened to the first great library of Alexandria?"

"Caesar burnt it down during his sacking of the city, did he not?" he replied.

She arched a sardonic eyebrow at him. _And the know-it-all strikes again... "_ Hardly. Caesar put a blockade around the city, and eventually started sending in troops to gain control over certain key aspects of the infrastructure. When he attempted to take over the library by murdering the chief librarian, the corresponding backlash from the collection unleashed such a large swarm of fire storms that entire city was destroyed, not just the library."

Evidentially, he had been following her explanation, because he suddenly blanched. "Are you telling me that the Hogwarts' Library is poised to take out the entire Castle if left unchecked?" he asked incredulously.

She offered him a small, tight, smile. "Yes, Professor Snape, I am. Knowledge," she intoned gravely, leaning back in her chair and tapping the full shelves behind her, "...is, quite literally, power."

"How much time do we have?" he snapped, black eyes snapping with a marked ferocity.

"As to that, I don't know," Hermione mused, thinking rapidly. "Several days to a week, at the most. Any protections that Madame Pince left behind would have long ago faded, and given that the new librarian is currently... indisposed, I would assume that her protections have likewise been compromised." She leaned forward intently. "You will recall me saying that nature abhors a vacuum? Well, so do the wards and protections of a library. If they are not receiving an adequate amount of energy from the collection, it goes for the next logical source... the librarian. Your librarian isn't just unconscious - she, and her magic - got sucked into the wards, and will only last as long as her magical core holds out. When her magic burns out, she dies, the wards fail... and the collection takes over."

Professor Snape rose abruptly, almost upsetting the tea service in his haste to stand. Whirling, he stalked over to the window and remained there for several minutes. Hermione remained sitting behind her desk, wondering how far she wanted to involve herself with the problems of Hogwarts once again... assuming, of course that the man in front of her would ever lower himself to ask for her help.

Apparently he would. "Can you fix it?" he demanded, his voice rasping roughly over the question.

"I don't know," she told him flatly, and it was nothing but the bald truth. For all that she was a powerful witch, the complexities of the Hogwarts' collection very well could be beyond her abilities.

His eyes glittered with a hard, familiar, anger as he rapidly strode back to her desk. Leaning over the polished oak surface, he hissed, "Don't know, or won't help?"

The riot of emotions that Hermione had been suppressing since learning of her visitor gave a convulsive lurch and were free. Without a second thought, she reached over the desk and slapped him. The sharp crack of her hand on his cheek was perhaps the most gratifying noise that Hermione had ever heard, the impact being hard enough to turn his head and force him to stagger back a step.

"You dare question my character? My courage or commitment? You, of all people!" Her voice rose in volume until she was a bare octave from a shriek. "Tell me, Severus Snape, when have I ever denied Hogwarts any of my blood, sweat or tears?! When have I not been willing to sacrifice for the greater good?"

Clutching at the desk, Hermione realized she was panting. With a savage exertion of will, she reined her temper in and stopped shouting. They glared at each other, the air fairly crackling with violent promise. Too late, she recalled that he was still one of the most powerful wizards alive, and a former Death Eater to boot.

But to her great shock, it was he that looked away first. When he finally met her gaze again, it was with a countenance so blank, so coldly austere, that she felt ashamed for her outburst.

He gave her a half-bow, the crimson vivacity of her hand print on his pale skin still glowing like a neon sign. "My apologies, Mistress Granger. My comment was both uncouth and uncalled for."

 _Hell has truly frozen over,_ Hermione thought numbly. _Severus Snape just offered me an unqualified apology. I'm not sure I believe it... but, nonetheless he made one..._

Silence stretched between them as taut as a bowstring, and Hermione realized that he was waiting for her to say something. Glancing down, she saw her hands, bloodless and tense, still grasping the surface of desk as if they belonged to someone else.

The news from Hogwarts deeply unsettled her; despite having left the school on bad terms, she did not wish it, nor any of the inhabitants ill. _I don't want to fight him any more. I just want him to leave. I want to pretend that this meeting never happened..._

"Given the events currently facing Hogwarts, I can understand why you might be... upset," she murmured finally.

He inclined his head once again, face still uncommunicative. "Do you have any recommendations as to what needs to be done?"

"No. There is no concrete next step... it all depends on what condition the wards are in. And your librarian," she said as an afterthought. "It would have to be determined in person."

His next words were spoken in a tone altogether more resonant and ceremonial. "Then, as Headmaster of Hogwarts, I formally petition you for assistance in this matter, Mistress Granger."

Hermione didn't know what was more stunning; that he would formally petition her - for if she accepted, he would owe her a rather considerable wizarding debt, second only to the obligation of a life debt - or that, contrary to all public knowledge, Severus Snape was still the Headmaster of Hogwarts.


	3. What to Do?

_**13 December 1998** _

Hermione had been utterly appalled when the Headmistress had escorted her into Professor Snape's sickroom and she had seen what condition the man had been in; somehow, he'd appeared even worse off than when he'd been half-dead and almost completely drained of blood on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

He was beyond skeletal, and his skin had a greyish hue that had brought to mind Inferi. From the carmine spots blooming across the bandages on his neck, it was clear that the wound caused by Nagini had still not healed completely, despite the incident having occurred over six months prior. Hermione had stood there, dumbfounded, and waited for him to say something - anything, really - to no avail; finally, McGonagall had informed her that Professor Snape could not speak.

His contribution to the conversation had been simple. He'd merely glowered at the two of them.

"How..." she'd stuttered, "...how am I supposed to assist him if he can't tell me what to do?"

The Headmistress had sent a fierce glare in the direction of the sullen Potions Master. "Severus, now is not the time to play mute. I've brought you help; I've set up a lab. You must participate for this process to work."

As quick as lightning, a myriad of emotions crossed the man's face; more than Hermione had ever seen at once. She saw anger, revulsion... helpless fury... satisfaction that he'd nettled McGonagall... and several things that she could not put a name to, but made her want to cry. Then his expression settled into resentful mulishness, and stayed that way.

 _ **And I keep telling you, Minerva, that I don't want this... process to work.**_ The words appeared abruptly on the chalkboard hanging on the wall by Professor Snape's bed; the narrow, jagged copperplate was familiar to her from the six years spent in his classroom.

McGonagall sighed, sounding like she was at her wits end. Ignoring the words on the wall, she addressed Hermione. "We've modified the charm on the chalkboard so that Severus can... speak, as it were. It's not a perfect solution, but it's the best I could come up with on such short notice."

"Right," Hermione murmured, at a loss for any other response.

An uneasy silence filled the space; once again, it was Minerva who broke it. "I need to go down and see how the repairs on the south stairwell are faring." She paused, glancing between Hermione and Professor Snape. "Hermione, if you need anything, let myself or Poppy know - she'll be in the main section of the Hospital Wing. Severus... please, at least try to make this work..."

He said nothing, a fulminating glower still etched on his bony face.

"We'll be fine," Hermione said, trying for the no-nonsense tone that her Mum had perfected from years of working on wound-up dental patients.

"Very well," the Headmistress said dubiously. "I will return sometime after lunch to check on you both." With that, the woman turned and left.

* * *

They weren't fine.

Three days in, Hermione wasn't sure if she wanted to kill the man, or run from the room crying. Professor Snape had her working on a series of increasingly obscure potions bases, and even with her encyclopaedic memory, Hermione had not a clue what she was making. When the last base - a foul-smelling brew that brought to mind a combination of long-dead things and black licorice - exploded yet again, she took a deep, calming breath before turning her gaze over to the chalkboard on the wall.

In some ways, she would have preferred to hear his hissing, sarcastic remarks; there was something infinitely worse about having to stop and willingly read his rather pointed personal commentary. With an internal wince, she turned to the chalkboard.

_**I see that you have even lost your oft-vaunted ability to follow simple directions. Why Minerva thinks that you would be any help at all is a mystery to me. Can you do anything correctly?!** _

She did not have to glance at his expression to pick up on the withering scorn in his words. Peering down at the rapidly congealing mess in the cauldron in front of her, Hermione realized that they had reached their Rubicon.

He was no longer her professor, and she'd be damned if he continued to treat her like an errant first-year. She had agreed to assist him not out of fondness, or even academic interest - truthfully, she would much rather still be learning the complex transfiguration charms being used to rebuild the Castle - but because the Headmistress had asked her to, and because she felt that she owed the man. Undoubtedly, his actions and sacrifices had made it possible for Voldemort to be defeated; she also felt terrible that they had left him suffering for so long in the Shrieking Shack, thinking he was dead.

But.

If she continued to take his insults, it would be as good as condoning his behaviour. After spending five, freezing, miserable months in bloody tent listening to the boys - well, mostly Ron - whinge endlessly, she was not about to continue taking abuse from another person unhappy with her methods. Moreover, after spending the last year on the run, she knew her strengths and weaknesses; she knew her worth. She wasn't foolish, or stupid, or any of the dozens of insults that he doled out daily.

 _One more chance,_ she thought, the rapid burn of anger permeating the tattered remains of her composure. _He's clearly in a considerable amount of pain, and I'd be royal mess too if I were anywhere close to his condition._ "I have been following your instructions to the letter," she said through gritted teeth. "Given that the potion continues to fail, is it possible that there have been missing steps or ingredients?"

She directed her words to where he sat like a despotic pasha on an overstuffed chair in the corner. Upon hearing what she had to say, a fine-arched brow went up and a sneer appeared on his face.

_**My instructions are not the problem! These are bases that any half-competent seventh year could brew...** _

"No." Hermione put down her stirring rod with a thunk. "Although I did not get the pleasure of taking Seventh Year Potions - on account of being on the run from a certain lunatic wizard with massive delusions of grandeur - I highly doubt that this is something a seventh year could do."

Stripping off her dragon-skin apron with a quick jerk, she advanced on him in a furious burst of movement. "I cannot help you without understanding what the goals of this particular project are. Moreover, I will not continue to work with you without being treated with at least a modicum of respect." Making a conscious effort to unclench her fists, she moderated her tone and went on. "I understand that your... circumstances are not favourable at the moment, but if we actually work together, we should be able to improve your condition."

_**Ahh, yes, because one naive, simplistic, know-it-all Gryffindor can fix what the highly trained and experienced Healers at St. Mungo's spent six months trying to do...** _

"Yes," she persisted. "I do think that if we were to work together, we could fix you."

_**And what if I don't want to be 'fixed', oh wise one?** _

A hundred images danced through Hermione's thoughts at his words. The expression on George's face when they had sealed Fred's tomb. The painful one metre gap that between the outstretched hands of Remus and Tonks, lying cold and dead in the Great Hall. Neville's Mum holding out a bubble gum wrapper. Cedric. A stinging sea wind wrapping around her body as they buried Dobby. The eerily empty expressions on her parent's faces after she'd Obliviated them...

A rage blew through her, and she strode past him into the supply closet, breaking through the security wards without any effort. Snatching a small purple vial from an upper shelf, she returned to main room. Placing the glass object on the table next to him, she said flatly, "Then do it."

She matched him glare for glare, hands on her hips. "You don't want to live? Fine. Take it." Hermione gestured to the vial again. "Digitalis. According to Professor Sprout, it was the strongest crop in twenty years. Knock it back in one go, and it won't matter how quickly Poppy can get here."

A turbulent silence fell over the room, interrupted only by the sounds of their harsh breathing. Finally, Hermione went on. "You may not want to be alive, but I also don't think that you want to die, either." Looking at the remnants of a once proud and powerful wizard in front of her, Hermione felt a reluctant stab of sympathy even amongst her ire.

"Like it or not, you are alive. It seems to me that you have three options. You can end it, of course. You can wallow in what is an undeniably terrible state... or you can try to get better."

The chalkboard behind Professor Snape remained blank, and Hermione couldn't decide if it was an improvement or not. She waited for some sort of response, but he wasn't looking at her. Rather, all of his focus was on the digitalis sitting by his right hand. His expression - at least what she could read of it - was a combination of longing and something like a perverted version of... hope. A leaden feeling settled in the pit of Hermione's stomach, and she wondered if she had pushed him too far. He was not Harry or Ron; she could not boss him about as she had done them... and he had been expressing clearly suicidal thoughts for the previous three days. Fleetingly, she contemplated snatching up the innocuous-looking vial and legging it for the door.

As if sensing the direction her thoughts were moving in, his long fingers snaked out and wrapped securely around the poison. His black gaze suddenly snapped up and bored into hers, the fierceness of his countenance harking back to the Professor Snape of her school days.

She felt an odd pressure on her mind, and then: _GET OUT._ The resonant, silky words seem to echo about the room. For a startled moment, Hermione thought that he had finally managed to speak aloud. Then the sheer wrongness of it registered, and she realized that he spoken into her mind.

 _GET... OUT... NOW_. She didn't have to imagine the menace in his words; his mental tone was rife with it.

Without meaning to, she took a step towards the door before her courage reasserted itself. Levelling her chin and meeting his gaze squarely, she said with false calm, "I'll return tomorrow." Praying that she was doing the correct thing, Hermione walked out of the room and left him to his choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who is reading and commenting- it's been lovely to see that people are enjoying the story!


	4. Questions, and Few Answers

_**11 June 2009** _

As he gazed at the amber-eyed witch across the desk from him, Severus Snape wondered what fickle fate had it in for him; he owed Hermione Granger an unacknowledged life debt already, and had just doubled-down for the sake of Hogwarts.

Oddly enough, the prospect did not fill him with resentment, but rather a sense of helpless... relief.

In the almost-decade since his recovery, he had come to terms with most of his ghosts. While no one would ever accuse him of being a cheerful sort, he was largely content in his day-to-day life; he had even had moments of what he considered simple felicity. For the most part, the wizarding public had been happy to forget both the costs and characters of Second Wizarding War - the revolving love lives of Quidditch stars being of far greater importance, apparently - and he had gratefully accepted a place within the protective shadows of Hogwarts.

Then, two days ago, his safe haven had abruptly exploded, and the resulting professional and personal chaos had made it perfectly clear that a reckoning was at hand. For one thing, the lingering magical effects of backlash from the collapsing wards had only highlighted what both he and Minerva knew; she was going to have to retire sooner rather later. They would not be able to hide that he had been quietly assuming more and more of the Head's duties for much longer, and with Filius making noises about leaving as well, massive changes were on the horizon. As obligingly oblivious as the public had hitherto been, he knew that would not last when it was announced that he was once again the titular Head of Hogwarts.

And then there was Hermione Granger.

He had meant to be dispassionate and reasonable in his approach to her; he'd wanted to say things like, 'thank you for saving my life twice over' and 'forgive me for being such an unrelenting and complete arse'. But sight of her, ever so confident in her tailored blue librarian's waistcoat, had stirred long-dormant emotions, and had reminded him rather painfully of the darkest time of his life. That she'd been spitting for a fight had not helped. All his inadequacies had suddenly loomed large, and his composure, already frayed from the crisis at Hogwarts, had simply unravelled as if hit by a _Finite Incantatem_. And thus his temper - always lurking in the corner like a hungry scrapyard dog - had eagerly lashed out when he'd thought that she had been refusing to help him.

He deserved that slap, and far more besides.

Snape watched her as he waited for her answer. She had grown into the strong features that had so dominated her appearance as a youth; her hair was no long a bushy morass of brown, but a barely restrained chignon of curls the colour of Irish whiskey. Whilst not classically beautiful, Hermione Granger was something far more arresting; vibrant and striking as a fine fall afternoon. There were only small hints of the student to be found, and idly he wondered if she was still friends with Potter and Weasley.

At length, she came to decision. With a quick movement, she opened a side drawer on her desk and withdrew a compact battered and beaded bag. Placing it on the desktop, she gazed at it for a brief second, with a queer sort of smile playing over her expression that he could not decipher.

Face finally clearing, she stood up. "I will assist you." Picking up the bag, she gestured to the door. "But first, we need to speak to the Chief Librarian."

* * *

"You can't be serious." The Chief Librarian was a stout, unassuming woman in somewhere in late middle age; for all that, Snape registered the solid line of calluses that could only come from frequent fencing when he shook her hand.

"You brought in a librarian from the French National Library, did you not?" the woman inquired after a pause.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Noémi Morel. She had nearly twenty years' experience, and came highly recommended."

"I don't understand how matters could have gotten so out of hand..." she murmured. "Someone with that amount of training and experience should have easily been able to take control of the collection, or at least had the common sense to say so if she couldn't." Focus switching over to Hermione, she went on. "Naturally, you have my permission to go to Hogwarts. I only wish that I could send someone with you, but we are short staffed with the all of the recent retrenchments..."

Hermione spoke in reassuring tones. "From what I recall about the wards of the Castle, they should provide enough of a bulwark for me to cast the new protections with a fair amount of safety."

The other woman nodded. "Be that it as it may, I want you to send for me if you have the slightest concern that matters might devolve further."

"I will."

She rose from her desk and came around to give Hermione a brief embrace. Turning to face Snape, she addressed him in an altogether sterner manner. "Your librarian is mostly likely dead. This is no petty issue, Professor. I do hope that you realize that, and what risks lie ahead."

"I do not take any aspect of Hogwarts' safety lightly, I assure you."

The woman did not look entirely satisfied with his statement, and narrowed her lips in way that recalled Narcissa Malfoy... or Minerva. "You will provide Mistress Granger with all of the support and resources she needs to be successful, or both you and Minerva will deal with me, is that understood?"

"It is."

She gave Hermione a final, comforting pat. "Off you go, then. I want daily updates."

* * *

_**17 December 1998** _

Professor Snape wasn't in the laboratory when she entered.

She supposed that she should be grateful that she hadn't come in to find him sprawled and foaming on the floor, but the action was still highly irritating. Hermione had spent the night stewing over their confrontation; a large part of her was utterly incensed that he would even contemplate throwing away a second chance at life while so many others did not have that choice.

But despite her confident avowal of the day before, she wasn't entirely positive that they could heal him, even with their combined efforts. And given the truly pitiful state that he was in, his anger made a desperate sort of sense...

With a muted sigh, she settled onto one of the tall stools by an empty table. Pulling out a book from her robe pocket, she began to read. _I'll give him an hour to arrive_ , she thought as she descended into the comfortingly familiar plot of _North and South._

* * *

Fifty-nine minutes later, the door banged open and he swept in, black robes billowing as he'd often done in at the start of Potions Class. Hermione jumped at the sudden barrage of noise, futilely trying to suppress the nascent blossoming of a blush she felt staining her cheeks.

Professor Snape was upon her before she could rise, and even with the added height of the tall stool, he loomed above her like a bird of prey. His regard, cold and clinical and infinitely hostile, washed over her. The abrupt entry and approach awoke the lingering student's instincts in her; she fought not to squirm under that judgemental gaze.

 _You want to know what I am attempting to brew?_ his mental voice echoed in her mind again, full of bitter condescension. _Fine._ _On your head be it... Assuming, of course, that you still have the ability to extrapolate the necessary information from a book._ With a baleful thump, he placed three green, leather bound volumes next to her on the table.

Over the course of his declaration, the mental pressure in Hermione's mind increased exponentially; by the time he had finished she felt like she was being pinned to the stool by an unseen foe. She found that she couldn't even tear her eyes from his, and a wave of sheer panic suddenly hit her as she registered the intensity of the restraining sensation.

 _He's in my head!_ she thought frantically. _Oh, Christ... he can read my mind!_ That unexpected violation triggered a cascading set of responses, with the accompanying adrenaline whipping through her like a winter gale. Flight was not an option in the limited space, and for one blind, nausea-inducing moment, Hermione saw not the stones of the Castle walls, but the subtle rectilinear peacock pattern of the Malfoys' Persian rug; felt the burn of Cruciatus in her muscles and the harsh grip of multiple hands holding her down.

The overwhelming urge to fight finally kicked in and made it possible for her leap from where she had been sitting and draw her wand; the crash of the stool bouncing off the flagstones also served to jar her tongue back into action. "Get out of my head!" she exclaimed, unable to keep the panic from her tones. Hermione saw something - confusion? - flash through his black eyes before his expression went completely unreadable. Then the mental pressure swiftly vanished, and she was left weak-kneed and shivering from the joint onslaught of remembrance and events.

"Stay the hell out of my thoughts," she spat again, red sparks shooting from her wand with an unconscious emphasis. "Use the ruddy chalkboard, or write a note, but if you ever do that again, I swear that I will hex you into your desired oblivion."

Her threat drew no visible reaction from him as they continued their face-off; Hermione realized that at some point, he had also drawn his wand. Heart galloping madly, she waited for him to do... something. She wasn't about to lower her wand, but beyond that she had no earthly clue what to do next; her thoughts seemed to be as insubstantial as mist.

He made a decision first. Pointedly, he shot a withering glare towards her, and then the books on the table, leaving the room in swirl of black-robed scorn.

The remnants of nerves kept her glued to the corner of the laboratory for several minutes after Professor Snape's exit; she stared dumbfounded at the green volumes until her natural curiosity finally won out over pusillanimous inaction. Opening up the top book, she saw that it was not a printed text, but rather a hand-written research journal. His personal research journal.

Hermione snatched her hand back as if bitten.

 _Well, that certainly fits the definition of 'go big or go home'_ , the irreverent little voice in her head murmured. But despite all that, her interest in the information was tempered by a healthy measure of spite. Their latest confrontation had wholly killed any abiding desire of hers to work with him, important task or no, and she wanted very much to turn and walk out of the room.

The only thing that stopped her was a sense of duty; obligation to the man who had risked his life to spy for Professor Dumbledore for all those years, and a genuine concern for Minerva McGonagall. While she couldn't claim to be a close confidante of her erstwhile professor, she knew enough of the current pressures and sorrows of the older woman to understand that Professor Snape's condition weighed heavily upon her.

Hermione risked a glance at the connecting door between the laboratory and what she assumed was his rooms. _I can't disappoint her_ , she thought, squishing her lingering distaste and picking up the books. _But I also don't have to read these here!_

* * *

She settled on a half-hidden and overly large window nook off the third floor Charms Corridor. Casting a swift cushioning and warming spell, Hermione settled into the space and opened the first volume again. There was no title page or preface; rather the journal began with an entry dated 17 August, 1995.

 _That's the summer following the Triwizard Tournament_ , Hermione thought, recollecting how bleak that stretch of months was. _And given that Voldemort had recalled all of the Death Eaters, probably not a... delightful holiday for Professor Snape, either._

"I have been unable to determine if the snake – Nagini - is merely a familiar or something infinitely more complex and dark. However, the high level of communication and awareness between it and the Dark Lord leads me to believe that the creature has been infused with far more than the normal array of magical attributes..."

Hermione flipped the page, and nearly gasped out loud. Rendered in plain black ink was an illustration of the snake. The long, sinuous body was twisting around the writhing form of a man, whose face was contorted in scream of silent, frozen agony.

Swallowing hard, she had a sudden and vivid memory of the smell of rot and the snake lashing out to attack Harry in Bathilda Bagshot's cottage. Returning her attention to the book, Hermione turned back to the first page, and began to read the entry anew.

It was matter of fact and quite dry, especially given that it detailed the torture and eventual murder of a Death Eater named Dennis Travers. She was struck by how detached and impersonal the words were; examining the drawing again, Hermione noted that while it was detailed - incredibly so, down to the faintest suggestion of plaid on the man's robes - the pen strokes conveyed a horror and utter rejection that the written words did not.

Curiosity revived, she opened the second book and started flipping through the pages. Much more like the scribbled notes found in the 'Half-blood Prince's' textbook, this one was far more technical, detailing Professor Snape's efforts at creating an anti-venom; about halfway through, it began a methodical list of all of the different potions created to treat Arthur Weasley following his bite at the Ministry of Magic.

Thumbing through the third volume, Hermione discovered that it was altogether different from the others. Divided into two sections, it covered two different potions: the rudimentary body potion used to grant Voldemort a corporal form, and the Regeneration Potion that restored the Dark Wizard to his true body and powers.

Hermione felt her stomach give way in a lurch of pure dread. Looking at the ingredients listed, she found that many of them were the very ones that she had been working with over the the past few days. She had a sudden and vivid recollection of Professor Snape's opening lecture: "... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death..."

 _That can't be right..._ she thought, mind racing over the possibilities. _Surely he wasn't having me make the same potion that brought Voldemort back to life..?_


	5. A Return

_**11 June 2009** _

The first thing that she noticed upon Apparating to the front gates wasn't the uncommonly lovely Scottish summer day, or the majestic bulk of the Castle stretched out along the lake, but the electric, repellent sensation of corrupted wards pressing on her. The sensation was akin to stepping into some unseen slimy and foul mess in the middle of the night; involuntarily, she made a sound of disgust and moved back.

Professor Snape, who had just been reaching forward to unlock the gates, turned and peered over his shoulder at the slight noise. "You can feel them?" he asked, surprise clear.

"If you mean the wards, then yes." She stepped towards the black wrought-iron structure. He held the gate open for her, and they started the trek to the Castle.

"Can you sense them even when you are elsewhere?" Hermione inquired, professional interest roused.

"Yes," he replied a tad stiffly. "But only because I am Headmaster. As Heads of House, Pomona, Filius and Longbottom can sense them whilst here, but once they leave the grounds, the compulsion lessens. For Minerva and I, distance seems to matter not." He paused, and his tone slid into something almost conversational. "I went to Japan several years back for a conference, and I could still feel them just as strongly."

"What is the sensation like under normal circumstances?"

"A bit like having a warm hand constantly on the small of your back, but a bit more... non-specific."

"It must be a little odd to always be able to feel the school."

Professor Snape glanced down at her, the warm sunshine imparting his skin with a patina of colour. "Not really. It's comforting more than anything; you know all is well. At the moment..." he rubbed the back of his neck reflexively, "...it is highly irritating, which is the point."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Hermione found herself walking up the stairway of the Head's Office, the familiar interwoven pattern of stone and mortar evoking numerous other trips up the passageway. As with the gate, Professor Snape held the door open for her when they reached the top of the stair, the small courtesies apparently well-ingrained in his behaviour.

A frail, white-haired woman was perched upon a squishy-looking sofa by the set of windows; it took Hermione several startled heartbeats to comprehend that the unknown person was Minerva McGonagall.

With a soft murmur, Professor Snape offered to take her travelling cloak from her, and she used the timely distraction to school her features into a semblance of her normal calm. When she turned back from the coat rack, McGonagall had risen, and had mostly lost the unnerving appearance of a complete stranger.

If Professor Snape's overall countenance had been greatly improved by the passing years, the opposite was true of the older woman. Her vivid emerald gaze was still sharp, but her skin had turned translucent and papery; she seemed to have shrunk by several inches. Moreover, she didn't merely look old - she looked unwell.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snape give the Headmistress the same, discreet once-over that she had; she saw momentary worry and sorrow cross his features before they too smoothed into a polite greeting.

"Hello, Mistress Granger," Minerva said, a cautious if genuine smile of pleasure crossing her face.

"Good afternoon, Headmistress," she responded, injecting the phrase with as much warmth as she could.

A hint of the sardonic slipped into the other woman's smile. "Please, after all these years, calling me Minerva is only appropriate."

"Only if you will return the favour and call me Hermione," she affirmed.

"Very well. Do come in." She gestured towards the sitting area. "Can I offer you a cup of tea before we move on to business?"

"That would be lovely," Hermione said, keenly aware of the edge of awkwardness that was disrupting the usual comforting ritual. Once upon time, Minerva McGonagall had been the epitome of everything that Hermione had wanted to become; she'd been a trusted mentor as well as teacher. But after... well, once she'd left Hogwarts, bitterness and anger had kept her from writing the other woman. When she'd finally returned England, enough time had passed that it seemed better to just let matters be. Hermione now recognized that her inaction was a greater manifestation of the persistent shame and childish fear that she'd be negatively judged for her choice to leave Hogwarts without graduating.

Over the next ten minutes, they chatted gamely about changes at the school as well as the basics of Hermione's position. She was gratified to hear that Minerva had modified the Muggle Studies curriculum to include a mandatory seminar on the sciences, as well as current technology, all in an effort to bring the wizarding world into the twenty-first century. In return, the Headmistress was plainly curious about the inner workings of the British Library; when Hermione told her that each librarian received six paid weeks a year for research, she was clearly envious.

"It's always assumed that because we have the summers off, we can do research then," Minerva groused. "But being a boarding school, the holidays are a much needed chance to recover and recharge. I manage to get some work done, but never as much as I'd like."

Professor Snape suddenly appeared over the Headmistress' shoulder, and placed a steaming cup of tea on the table by her. Next to the tea, he put a second, small plate of fresh biscuits.

"Isn't it a little early for chocolate biscuits, Severus?" Minerva inquired dryly.

"Would you like me to remove them?" he asked with a deceptive innocence.

With a sigh, the Headmistress snagged a biscuit and bit into it. "No."

"No complaints, then." Turning to Hermione, he asked, "Two sugars, no milk, correct?"

She nodded, surprised that he'd either remembered how she liked her tea, or had been aware enough to notice it among the tumult of the morning. Placing a saucer - as well as some of the aforementioned biscuits - in front of her, Professor Snape settled into an armchair with a cup of his own.

He'd removed both his outer robes and frock coat, revealing a simple white lawn shirt and black trousers; in all the years that she had known him, she had never seen him dressed so casually. Despite that, he looked... elegant and altogether masculine, and she wondered which Snape - the angry man in her office, or this one - was the closest to being the real man. _Or is what you are seeing another mirage?_

"Hermione," Minerva started, the barest trace of uncertainty in her voice. "I want to apologize for everything that happened before; I can't began to tell you how horrible I feel that you were unable to complete your final year here."

"It wasn't your fault," Hermione said, and found that she meant it. "I shouldn't have come back in the first place; after everything that happened during the rebuilding, and then all the issues with my parents... well, I knew I wasn't in a good place to focus on school. Coming back only made a bad situation worse..."

"You were not to blame," Snape snapped suddenly, and she thought she heard a familiar anger in his words. But when she looked to him, she saw it wasn't anger but frustration at play; to her great surprise, it appeared to be entirely self-directed. "Either of you. I could not have acted any more the arse or less the adult had I tried. My behaviour was simply horrid, and it put both of you in situations not of your own making."

For a long moment, Minerva and he shared a weighty, telling glance, and Hermione could tell that this was ground that they'd been over many times before. The pair's obvious closeness came as yet another surprise to her; post-battle they'd been at utter odds.

Thinking back to his miserable physical condition, as well as how bad his mental state had to have been after so many years of being a spy for Albus Dumbledore, Hermione was inclined to at least acknowledge those huge stressors. "You had your reasons for acting the way you did."

He met her gaze squarely. "No. I had excuses. I was not alone in my suffering; at no point in that entire débâcle did I take responsibility for my own poor behaviours and choices."

Hermione knew that she had not a chance of keeping the shock from her face, and so didn't even bother trying. Thankfully, she was not required to form a response to his unexpected apology; he continued speaking after only a brief sip of tea.

"In truth, you saved my life twice over - once in the Shrieking shack, and again after the battle. I have never recognized you properly for that, nor acknowledged the life debt that was created as a result. Were it not for your assistance, and indeed," a wry smile appeared, "your appropriately sharp words and wit, I would not be in the fortuitous place I now find myself. I thank you, and hope that you can eventually forgive me for my actions."

Hermione was completely thrown off-kilter by the sincerity in his speech; she was grateful for the tea cup in her hand for giving her something, anything, to focus on rather than having to meet his steady gaze. Peering down at the delicate china in her hand, she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry; there had been a time when an apology of that magnitude might have very well changed the course of her life...

But he hadn't apologized... hadn't acknowledged so much, and she'd accordingly left. And now? Now she had no clue; not what to do, nor to say. For all that he was sincere, it was also too late.

Realizing that she had to say something - the silence had stretched on for far too long as it was - Hermione asked the first thing to come to mind. "Are you sure about the life debt?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. Had I known..." Visions from that night overwhelmed her, and she recalled the bitter feeling of failure that had so permeated her feelings after the Battle of Hogwarts. For all that they had won, the costs had been terribly high, verging on the pyrrhic. "Had I but known what I was doing that night in the Shrieking Shack..."

"You still would have tried to save my life." He spoke the words softly, but they seemed to echo about in the large room.

"Yes, I would have done." She swallowed. "Truly, I am sorry. Has it... faded in all these years?"

"You have nothing to regret, Hermione." He leaned forward in his chair, placing his empty cup back on the saucer. "But no, the life debt has not faded."

That confirmation filled her with a sense of growing unease. Hermione rather thought she would enjoy having him beholden to her about as much as he did. "And yet you are willing to invoke a second debt?"

"For Hogwarts, yes."

"Are you happy?" she eventually asked, thinking of her own internal battles over the years.

"As much as I detest using that particular word, yes."

"Then that's all I'll ask of you; be happy. Be at peace. It does nothing to negate the life debt, I know, but I'll not have you owe me anything more than needs must."

"As you wish," he replied formally.

Movement drew her attention back to Minerva, who was hastily wiping her eyes. "I hate that you've come back like this, that it took us this long to mend the breach. I wish..." she stopped and wiped again, "I only wish that we'd had the courage to do it sooner."

"The when of it doesn't matter as much as it being done in the first place." Hermione said firmly. "Besides which, attempted earlier, we might not have been in a place to forgive and move on." She directed the last part of her statement at Professor Snape, hoping it was enough for him. "The point is, I'm here now, past matters have been resolved, and I will do my damnedest to fix the issue at hand."

"Well said," Minerva remarked, still a little leaky. "Now, why don't you explain to me what you think the problem is..."

* * *

**_20 December, 1998_ **

He waited three endless days for her to return to the laboratory.

Snape did not think that it was a power play on her part; Granger was entirely too straightforward to waste time in such a fashion. But as the days dragged on, he wondered if she had decided to stop working with him, or if she'd been unable to decipher what his aim had been.

With no other task within his reach of his meagre abilities, he spent the time in ceaseless recrimination. Unlike his time in St. Mungo's, however, his anger this go-round was far more self-directed. For all that he did not like Granger - not her epic need to please, penchant for being a pushy swot, or any of other disagreeable Gryffindor traits - he'd not meant to imperio her; had certainly not meant to break all of the Occlumentic ethos by injecting his thoughts into her mind with all the subtlety of a five kilo hammer.

When he'd originally 'spoken' to Minerva and Poppy, he'd merely broadcast his verbalized thoughts, and his rage had made them loud enough for the two women to hear. Impolite as the behaviour was, it did not amount to the Unforgivable that his later actions had. But then the girl had angered him, and rather badly with her challenge...

Implicit in her little speech was the assertion that by wanting to die, he was taking the coward's way out... and if there was one thing he could not abide being called, it was coward. In his impotent fit of anger, he had wanted to make her understand, make her leave... and all-unwitting, had imperio'd her to listen until she'd broken free of his control.

The hell of it was, she was correct.

He'd chosen to wallow, rather than work towards a solution, and had been too focused on what he couldn't do, and what he didn't have. But Snape wasn't the best Potions Master in Britain for nothing. Had he applied himself sooner to the task at hand - or been willing to guide the Healers at St. Mungo's - he might not still be in such lamentable physical straits.

There were decent enough reasons for his behaviour, although he knew very few would see it that way. It had been a foregone conclusion to Snape that he would not live past the final confrontation with Voldemort; that much had become clear to him after Dumbledore had 'requested' that he kill him. If Harry Potter had been an acceptable sacrifice, what chance did he have? He had lived as a hated and reviled man for so long that he'd forgotten how to look forward to the coming days and months with anything approaching anticipation. It would be death or Azkaban for him, and he had hoped fervently for death.

But Voldemort was dead, not him; so were the vast majority of his followers. Minerva had secured a pardon for him, and he was no longer obliged to look after Potter. And thus, while he did not want to live in this particular condition any longer, he now at least had a keen desire to finally be able to take back control of his own life.

And he knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt, that there was no way that he could take back his life without Hermione Granger's help... and he had virtually ensured that she would not walk back into his rooms. So the question had become how long he was going to wait, and how long it would take to work up the courage to ask her to assist him.

So once again, that bushy-haired know-it-all was correct. He may not like it, but he was in fact, a coward; the ten steps towards the door might as well have been ten thousand for all he had enough courage to get up ask for her forgiveness.

He heard footsteps at the door, and turned, expecting to see Poppy. But it wasn't Poppy, or even Minerva. Granger walked in.

She appeared battered and just a tad frayed, like a sweater that had been worn and washed one too many times. If the dark circles under her eyes were any indication, she had slept just as infrequently as he had, and he did not care to dwell on what - or who - might be haunting her sleep. Looking at the delicate curves of her face, he was struck anew with how little of the student remained in her countenance; the softness of childhood had been replaced with an implacable hardness and strength that spoke to her battles over the previous two years. Something rather akin to shame flooded him, and an apology gathered form in his mind.

Hermione Granger had come to him. Surely, he could unbend enough to apologize to her...

But gazing into her expressive amber eyes, he saw no forgiveness; no hint that anything he might say was welcome or would make any difference. And so the apology died before it could be uttered. Really, it was for the best. He'd apologized once to a Gryffindor woman, and it had done nothing but make him a laughingstock; he would not expose his underbelly again.

Naturally, it was she who broke the silence first.

"At first, I thought you were having me make the same potion used to bring Voldemort back." Her voice was harsh, almost strident in the quiet of the space. "But then I kept reading, and started to compare the formulas with what we had been brewing, and the two did not match up at any step."

Leaving the doorway, she moved over the table, and placed his research journals on the high table. "It took a bit of outside reading, but I think that what you were attempting to have me make was a potion to extract and expand the traces of venom in your blood. I assume that you would then use that to make an antivenin."

He nodded, and carefully directed his thoughts to the chalkboard.

_**Yes, that was my aim, although we are missing several key ingredients. Even if the potion works, it may fail to produce enough venom to make a successful antivenin.** _

"The potion kept failing because we were missing unicorn blood, didn't it?" At his affirmative, she went on. "And unicorn blood is the common factor in all of those potions."

_**Unicorn blood is the substance that has the strongest magical reaction with snake venom; it can either inhibit or strengthen the potion depending on its preparation.** _

"So why not just drink pure unicorn's blood? In several healing manuals, it is recommended for advanced illnesses, or the worst of lingering health conditions."

He felt his lips automatically narrow into a sneer; with an effort, he curbed his reaction. He wouldn't apologize, but he also would not antagonize her further. _**Because, at the moment, there is no unicorn blood available for sale in Britain. It was all used following the final battle, and it is highly illegal to import. Thus, unless I want to add killing the ultimate creature of the light to my list of sins, there is none to be had.**_

"Why not try to request some from the Hogwarts herd? I would think that they would make an exception given your... circumstances..."

_**One would need to be a virgin of both pure heart and intent to make that request, and if there is one thing this school is short of at the moment, it's a witch that meets those rather... specific qualifications.** _

She looked away at that fun little morsel of information, a faint hint of rose spreading across her pale cheeks. It surprised him to see a sudden display of maidenly bashfulness; surely, she had remembered that vital fact about gathering unicorn blood.

Then her jaw tightened, and he saw a bitter resignation fill her expression before it went coldly dormant. "I can."

 _ **Can what?**_ he thought, her short response nonsensical to him.

"I can make the request." Her entire body had gone tense, and he did not need to be an expert in reading body language to deduce that she was waiting for him to make some sort of scathing comment. "Hagrid took me out to the herd last week. I was able sit with them for several hours, and even pet the new foals."

He sat down on the nearest chair with a thump, mind buzzing with both possibilities and questions. _Having access to unicorn's blood would greatly simplify matters; if I could take unicorn blood, it might be enough... I might be able to do more than just direct Granger. Moreover, it would take the potion out of the realm of theoretical and into the possible... but how in Merlin's name is she still a virgin? She dated Krum, and spent the better part of last year on the run with Potter and Weasley, alone..._

Snape carefully thought about his next words before allowing them to appear on the chalkboard; for once, he was not about to destroy his best chance for recovery.

_**The main drawback of using unicorn's blood as a healing potion is that it's not a permanent solution; it can only heal a limited variety of injuries, and only serves to mask the majority of ailments... moreover, it's only efficacious for several hours to days before it wears off.** _

"So it would require continuous dosing until you could develop an antivenin?"

 _ **Correct.**_ He thought hard about the project, and how much faster things could progress if it were he doing the brewing, rather than Granger. And to live without constant pain... _**At best, I think that I would need a month's supply of unicorn blood before I could finish the antivenin... or it could be much longer. I am loath to ask the herd for that much blood; they lost a fair amount of their number, as well.**_

"But that would be our best hope for curing you, would it not?"

He nodded, saying nothing and all but holding his breath. As before, a certain bitterness crossed her face before she announced her decision. "Then it sounds like I need to ask Hagrid to take me back into the Forbidden Forest."


	6. Boil, Toil and Trouble

**_22 December 1998_ **

Despite the near-freezing temperatures and the swirling, abrasive snow crystals that were scouring any softness from the air, the Headmistress was waiting for her at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. She made a lonely picture, perched on a bench and gazing out at the flat, monochromatic Great Lake with thousand-yard stare.

When the woman heard the crunch of Hermione's boots on the frozen earth, she turned to stare. It was then that Hermione saw an expression that she'd never seen on Minerva McGonagall's face: fear. Not even during the Battle of Hogwarts had such a sentiment appeared.

Hermione wasn't naïve. She knew that the Headmistress was not immune to fear, but the woman had always been so publicly unshakable that it was a shock to see that particular emotion. Hastily, she spoke to reassure the woman.

"They agreed to give us blood for as long as we need, and I have the first dose." For a brief second, the Headmistress' iron posture sagged, boneless, against the stone bench, and she looked upward, relief and gratitude obvious in her gaze. Taking a shallow breath in the bitter air, Hermione walked over the bench and sat next to the older woman, cradling the precious vial of unicorn's blood in her lap.

"Why is this so important to you?" she finally asked, the question having weighed on her for the last several weeks. "I mean, I know that Professor Snape is massive part of why we defeated Voldemort, but you've already done so much for him and he's… well, he's just not…"

"Very nice? Or thankful?" McGonagall finished for her, a hint of rueful amusement entering her voice. "No, he's not."

"It must be more than just what he did during the war," Hermione said, the words falling somewhere between a statement and a question.

The Headmistress sighed. "My dear, the war is everything. I've known Severus Snape for almost forty years now, and in that time, do you know how many true allies he had? One. And do you know who that person is?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Lucius Malfoy. Other than that… odious man, we've all betrayed him countless times- myself included. And rather than let us wallow in the misery of our own making, Severus chose, time and again, to stay the course. In doing so, he damned himself to far greater torments then lot of us."

"I thought that you trusted him," Hermione asked, uncertain how to respond otherwise.

"So did I. But when it came down to it, I let the better part of my rage and grief destroy my common sense, and gleefully threw him to the wolves." McGonagall snorted derisively. "Truthfully, I led the pack of wolves most days."

She reached over and patted Hermione's glove covered hand. "You weren't here last year, so you'll not know how bad it was… but I assure you, we- both students and staff- did everything to make his life horrid, all while he was frantically trying to save our unappreciative hides."

"Ginny and Neville mentioned a bit," she said cautiously, not knowing how much the other woman knew about her friends' more clandestine activities.

"We all tried to murder him. Multiple times," McGonagall said bluntly. "And really, last year was simply a microcosm of what happened his entire life. I know for a fact that his father beat both he and his mother for years while he was growing up… and when he finally came to Hogwarts, we hardly protected him any better. Granted, his personality has never been what you'd call charming, but still, we ought to have done far more than sit back and let him champion his own battles. And then Albus…"

The woman sighed again, her face clouded over in anger and regret. "For all that Albus Dumbledore proclaimed him a trustworthy man, he certainly didn't treat him as such; in the end Albus left him hanging, and we all followed his lead. Do you know how many times I saw Severus come back from that madman, tortured within a inch of his life…?"

"Come back from Voldemort, you mean?"

McGonagall laughed, a harsh, hollow sound. "Yes, from Voldemort, although Riddle and Albus were both as mad as march hares in their own ways. Albus could be just as cold and cruel; the difference was, he let others do his dirty work for him." The Headmistress shifted so that she could face Hermione fully. The woman's emerald eyes were fiercely determined as she went on.

"I can't give him back his childhood, or his school years. I can't erase the years of physical and physiological torture. I can't give him happiness, or a measure of trust, friends… any of those things you truly need to truly live. The only thing I can give him is another chance. And that, my dear, is where you come in. You saved his life." For a moment, a contemplative, almost crafty expression filled her gaze. "And whether or not he ever says so, he will feel that a debt is owed over it. He will let you help him even when he won't let Poppy or I do so. Fight him, argue with him. Poke and prod, push him as far as you dare, but just work with him. There is a good man under all that pain and anger, and I know if we only give him a chance to heal, he'll do the rest."

Minerva McGonagall reached forward and patted her cheek. "He's a survivor, just as you are. He just needs enough time to remember that." She stood, motioning Hermione do to likewise. With a practised flick of her wand, the Headmistress transformed the bench back into a rock.

The woman's Scottish practicality apparently restored, she said, "Now come along. It's far too cold to be sitting outside in this weather."

* * *

**_20 January 1999_ **

"I think you're flat out wrong." Hermione put the vial that she was examining down on the stone table with a muted thunk. "Just because Muggle technology hasn't been used to combat Dark magic doesn't mean that it can't."

From his perch upon a tall stool, Snape rolled his eyes. **_Really, Miss Granger, I know that you are a natural advocate for all things Muggle, but this is taking it step too far._**

"Right, because you've used nanotechnology before and found it to be less than helpful in the application of healing potions," she shot back obstinately.

**_You know very well that I didn't know what bloody nanotechnology was prior to three days ago. However, I don't need to be a theoretical chemist to understand that trying to force two separate kinds of 'technologies' that operate on completely different metaphysical plans to work together is viable, or even a feasible idea._ **

"And again, I'm going to ask why? Why not? Because no one else has done it before? This is emerging science, even for Muggles, and we won't know if it can work unless we try."

Hermione cut off any reply with an impatient wave of her hand. "We've been at this for over a month now, and even with the addition of unicorn blood, we are not any closer to finding a working solution than when we started. What I'm suggesting is that we approach the problem from a different angle." Picking a stack of papers and printouts that she'd gathered from a Muggle library, she pushed the stack towards him. "If a group of American high-school students can create a revolutionary new way of treating snake bites with nanotechnology, I don't see why we can't do the same for you. Just read the damn articles before you dismiss my idea out of hand."

Hermione rather thought her idea a brilliant one. She'd spent several days researching Muggle venom treatments, and had come across a series of journal articles about a group of youths that had managed to create a medical protocol that used polymer nano-particles to bind antivenin to the toxin in the bloodstream, making it much easier to treat. That idea seemed like the perfect fix for the issues that they were having; the nano-particles could not only bind themselves to the venom in Snape's blood, thus making it simpler to extrapolate and duplicate, but once they had a working antivenin, would also aid in the final treatment as well.

_Pity that stubborn mule of a man won't even bother to read up on what I've found. Despite his long-standing affiliation to the Pureblood supremacy movement, I don't think he actually gives a fig for any of those foolish notions... and besides which, he's a half-blood himself._

**_You do realize that in order for your particular scheme to work, you would have to somehow charm your nano-particles to have an affinity for Dark Magic... and the only way to do that is use Dark Magic? Dark Magic, I might remind you, that you know very little about, and will require some sort of blood price to do so._ **

Something in Hermione loosened upon reading his statement; sarcastic as it was, they had at least progressed to the point where he was at least considering her idea for it's merits, not just dismissing it utterly out of hand.

After her conversation with the Headmistress, an imp of the perverse had awoken within Hermione, and along with that, a seismic shift had occurred in her relationship with Snape. She wasn't blind; she could see how he was reining in his temper and checking his comments in their daily interactions. Hermione didn't completely buy the Headmistress' idea that he was doing so merely because he felt that he owed her; rather, she thought it was because she could- and would- walk away if he didn't toe the line. And if she left, there would be no further unicorn blood, and no assistance. For all that he was a saviour of the wizarding world, he had also burnt his bridges with wild abandon. Had it not been for Minerva calling in every favour and every scrap of influence that she could, Severus Snape would be in Azkaban; had it not been Minerva, Hermione would not stuck it out to work with him.

But the power balance had shifted, and Hermione took advantage of that fact every way that she could. She asked him endless series of questions, and the new rules meant that he had to answer… politely. Likewise, she questioned methods and conclusions in ways that he never would have tolerated before. Severus Snape had to not just humour her: he had been forced to acknowledge her, Hermione Granger, as an individual, not just as one of the 'golden trio', or as the 'annoying Gryffindor swot'. While the man had not apologized to her- and she wasn't holding her breath for that miracle to occur- in some ways, being able to act and do as she pleased with little concern for reprisals more than made up for everything else.

With a challenging glint in her eyes, she pushed the stack of papers a bare inch away from his folded, long-fingered hands. "Read it, and if you think I'm still a daft pillock, then we'll move on."

With a huff worthy of a third year, he snatched the papers from the table and hurriedly retreated to his more comfortable chair.

 **You are not a daft pillock.** Snape kept his gaze firmly latched on to the first sheet of paper.

"No," she said softly, willing the smirk to stay off her face. "I'm not."

* * *

**9 February 1999**

It had been more than a few days since Hermione had felt anything resembling close to smugness; her nano-particle notion, so promising in the initial steps, had suddenly petered out, and they had not progressed at all in the past week. Every time they got one set of charms to stick, another set would fail; once they'd figured out how to balance one part of the polymers in suspension, they'd been forced to redo another part of the potion because it had gone out of whack. The miserable weight of failure was starting to dog her; it had been her concerted pushing that had sent them down this narrow path, and if it proved to be a dead-end, then it would be quite a lot of time and effort wasted for nothing.

Snape, smart man he was, had not needled her on it. Rather, he had stepped up and started to use his own brilliant brain to work out the kinks.

And brilliant it was, too. Hermione had always known herself as not just smart, but exceedingly so. She'd been at the top of her grade in primary, and had been the best student for her six years at Hogwarts; there had no doubt that had she actually been able to finish her seventh year, she would have taken first honours. But Snape… Snape was in a whole other league.

They had finally settled into an agreeable routine; mornings meant brewing and afternoons were the dissection of what went wrong, as well as planning for the next day. Mondays and Tuesdays were the most productive days; he took his weekly dose of unicorn blood on Sunday evening, and as the week went on and the effects wore off, Hermione would start to see that pinched, grey cast returned to his features. By Friday, he would be a surly bastard once more, and she refused to work with him at all on Sundays.

The unicorn blood had eventually had another, unexpected effect; Snape had finally started to speak again. Hermione experienced a queer sort of sorrow at the raspy baritone husk that his voice had been reduced to every time he spoke. Still, raspy voice or no, his return to speaking had made their fights a lot more… fun.

That thought made her squirm a bit. _You must be completely nutters if the first adjective you think of when fighting with Snape is 'fun'._ But as crazy as it sounded, she did enjoy their intellectual debates: they would bicker back and forth until they reached the limits of her knowledge, he would assign her several books worth of reading, and then they'd start all over again the next day.

She had tried to explain it to Harry and Ron when they'd come to the Castle several days earlier, and had utterly failed, mostly because they couldn't understand why she didn't mind being around Snape any more. He could be almost decent company, if you didn't find sarcasm to be mortally offensive... which she didn't, as she could dish it back.

More than that, their project occupied all her mental processes; Hermione did not have to think about what she'd done to her parents, or how she was going to explain it to Harry or the Weasleys. There was no room to remember to the long, grinding horror of the months living in tent, or what had happened in Malfoy Manor, or the events of the Battle… she could wrap herself up in the safety of academic arguments and pretend that she didn't feel more than a little manic and scared of the future.

But their current string of failures was making it harder and harder to ignore the nascent bubble of anxiety growing within her. Matters had shifted, and she wasn't just doing this work out of obligation, or even pride; Hermione wanted this to be a success. She wanted Snape to have his chance… and they were failing.

Resolutely, she focused her gaze back on the text in front of her, and began to take notes again. _What if we layer the charms using runic calculations…_

Her quill abruptly snapped, ink dribbling messily out of the feather, and all over her notes. Reaching into her pocket for her wand to clean the splotch, she found it empty. It also wasn't in the bottom of her bag- she didn't even see the extra pens and quills that she'd place in it- and her anxiety erupted.

"Oh, bugger!" she exclaimed, scanning the surrounding tabletops for her missing items.

"What is the problem?" Snape asked, looking up from his own set of experiments.

"I've just broken my quill and gotten ink all over. I can't find my wand… and I know that brought a couple more biros with me…" She trailed off, aware that she was rambling uncontrollably.

He gazed at her for a long moment, black eyes inscrutable, before circling around his table and gliding over to hers. Stopping in front of her, he remained silent, merely watching her with an air that was distinctly… masculine.

To her shock, he reached out and gently touched her hair with a deft hand; the action was so bewildering that she merely blinked up at him, astonished. Then there was a tug, and Hermione felt her curls come cascading down and slide over her shoulders, the sensation almost sensuous.

His hand reappeared, and in it was her wand. _Oh, right. I was using it to hold my hair up…_ she thought, becoming aware that her heart had stared to pound in a rather unfamiliar, jumpy rhythm. Snape placed the wand carefully on the table, and then reached again for her.

This time, his finger just barely skimmed her temple before giving her scalp another tug, pulling a battered quill from her locks. _I bet I have ink in my hair,_ she thought dazedly as he placed the item alongside the wand. _And I must have looked like a mad woman, with all that sticking out off my head…_

A third time he touched her hair; fingers carding over the crown of her head in such a way that she was forced to repress a shiver. A biro joined the objects waiting on the table.

Next, two fingers caressed the upper shell of her right ear, and Hermione stopped breathing. Slowly, he withdrew a second biro from where it had been tucked behind her ear, the slow drag of the pen over her skin making her break out in gooseflesh.

"I wonder," he murmured, voice low enough that it was almost smoky, "…what else I might find in your hair if I looked? What else might be lost in there?"

 _My marbles…_ she thought, mouth gone dry, and the sharp edge of the table biting into the fleshy part of her palm from where she was gripping it. _I've lost my marbles. And funny enough, I don't mind if you have a peak…_

Just as his hand came up again, the door to the lab flew open; they both jumped apart, the bustling, rustling figure of Madame Pomfrey coming as unwelcome shock to the system.

Hermione managed to tear her gaze away from Snape long enough to register that neutral expression that slid over the Matron's expression as she took in the scene before her.

The woman said nothing however, and walked over to Hermione, hand outstretched with a note. "Post Owl just dropped this by. I thought it might be important, so I brought it up."

"Thank you," Hermione all but croaked, fingers numb as she took the proffered paper.

"Not a problem at all. Severus, don't forget to come by at four so I can take your vitals."

"As you wish," Snape replied, as the Matron made for the door.

When she looked back again, Snape was firmly stationed behind his own table, and he met her befuddled gaze with a bored and dispassionate one. There was no hint on his face that the previous minute had affected him.

 _Did I just imagine that whole scenario?_ she thought, glancing down to confirm that her wand, quill and biros were laid out on the table before her. But the even, measured placement of each item only increased her confusion. _I really must be losing my marbles. Snape is a lot of things… and sexy is not one of them. I mean, I don't even like him, and I certainly don't fancy him… Clearly, I need more sleep… or something, because that didn't just happen…_

Mechanically, she opened the note. It was from Ron, his scrawl a haphazard as always.

_"Hiya love!_

_George has graciously consented to letting me leave early, so I thought I'd join you for dinner. I'll be at the gates about six- Ron"_

_Oh, bugger it all!_ she thought in mingled irritation and unease. _The last thing I want to deal with tonight is a hungry, amorous boyfriend!_

* * *

Snape's feet caressed the stone floors silently, and he revelled in the sheer freedom of being able to wander the long hallways of Hogwarts as he pleased without worry of collapse. Night had fallen hours before, and the Castle had gone gloriously silent and still; he ghosted through the welcoming shadows with a sybaritic joy.

The only thing missing in his nocturnal exploration was the possibility of catching students in the midst of their juvenile mischief and taking points away. However, as the school would not be open to students until the start of September, he would have to settle for a simple walk. But settle he would, and be grateful for it.

Events had finally swung his way; the first dose of unicorn blood, taken almost two months prior had produced a lessening of his maladies so great that it was almost akin to a rebirth. The effect of being pain-free for days at a time had a galvanizing effect on him that was second to none. He could speak, and the wound on his neck had almost completely closed...

Out of nowhere, Snape heard a sound from further down the corridor and paused, surprised to find evidence of the other people living in the Castle; it was late enough that everyone should be abed. Taking stock of his location, he realized that he had gravitated to the Gryffindor wing out of habit. The noise came again, a clear exclamation, and he found himself moving forward, curiosity peaked.

At the end of the corridor, a familiar red-headed figure appeared from one of the many sheltered nooks favoured by students. Ronald Weasley, he noted, was rather more muscle-bound than he'd been as a youth, but he still sported a permanent expression of gormless befuddlement on his freckle-clad face.

Then Hermione Granger appeared from the nook, hair and clothing akimbo, and Snape felt a stab of volatile anger flash through him. _How dare she! To risk everything for the sake of a little snogging..._

But her next words quickly disabused him of that notion. "Ron, for Pete's sake, can you keep your hands to yourself for once? You said you wanted to go for a walk, not that you planned to shove me in a corner and go for it."

"Blimey, 'Mione, do you have to be so literal minded all the bloody time? You're my girl... it's not like going for a walk and having a snog are any great shocker."

Snape found himself sliding further in the shadows of the hallway, the long-held instincts of espionage prompting him to gather more information instead of revealing himself. He also chose to ignore the flood of relief that had filled him after Hermione's exclamation.

"Ronald, I've said rather clearly that I prefer to wait, and the more you push me on this, the less likely I am to change my mind."

"I love you." The boy's voice went hard and accusatory. "I offered to marry you, and you said no. You don't want to live together either, and I only see you if I come to Hogwarts. Otherwise you play lady of castle and won't come down. Pardon me if the entire situation makes a bloke think that you're not very interested."

"It's not that, I promise..." Hermione's voice trailed off, and it occurred to Snape that she must not have told her former compatriots about her weekly trips to the unicorns. He wondered why; it was no secret that that the two of them were working together. "It's just... complicated, and I need more time."

"So explain why it's complicated, Hermione, because I just don't understand."

Granger made a sound of impatience. "After what happened in Malfoy Manor, do I really need to go into detail about why I want to wait? Why I'm not comfortable?"

"It's been almost a year. The only way to get over something is to confront it, and you can hardly do that if you don't let me touch you."

"Funny how that works; I have to confront my demons right away, but you get to use yours as an excuse anytime things go wrong!"

"That's different! Fred is dead..."

"And quite frankly, Ron, I feel like a part of me died that night." She paused, her next words coming out less aggressively. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but it's not just that one thing. It's that... and my parents, and everything happening right now... my body is the only thing I have any sort of control over..." Granger's voice went wobbly with emotion, and she started to sniffle.

Snape saw Weasley reach forward and stroke her curls; when the woman started to cry in earnest, he moved to put an arm around her. There seemed to be a moment of understanding between the two, until the ginger menace shifted her closer. With another muffled exclamation, Hermione stepped back.

"Would you stop that already?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Hermione! What more do you want from me? You tell me that I'm not supportive of you, and then when I try to comfort you, I get yelled at!"

"And maybe if I couldn't feel your prick digging into my thigh, it might actually feel like comfort!"

"I'm a bloke! I can't help that!"

"Well, I can!" Hermione yanked away from the boy, and started down the corridor towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Fine!" Weasley shouted, and with a dramatic whirl of his own started stomping in the opposite direction. "You come find me when you're ready, Hermione. I just can't promise I'll still be waiting!"

* * *

Witnessing their fight bothered him more than it ought.

Covertly, he watched her as she bent over a small vial attempting to charm nano-particles, and observed her for signs of emotional distress from the evening before. She appeared tired - which was hardly a new or surprising state - but other than that, there was no trace of her fight with Weasley.

Since she'd started to collect the unicorn blood for him, they'd reached an unspoken truce. While it had taken effort in the beginning to be nice to her- or at least, a simulacrum of civility- it was no longer a hard thing to keep up.

It was oddly humbling to see how she threw herself into the problem of developing an antivenin; sometime during her yearlong sojourn looking for the Horcruxes, she had made the intellectual jump from merely memorizing knowledge and regurgitating it to being able to make creative, breath-taking leaps of logic. He could admit, if only to himself, that he admired her genius, the way she combined the Muggle with the magical...

If they hadn't been working on a task that held such high stakes for him, if their project had occurred ten years earlier... well, he rather thought he would have relished what they were doing. Taken great pleasure in working with such a facile mind and with an able assistant. And she? He had no clue if she was likewise finding their work stimulating.

And that was the kicker; there was a slowly emerging part of him that wanted her to like what they were doing... to enjoy working with him.

Snape no longer looked at her and saw the swotty student, or the stalwart friend of Harry Potter, but a bright, generous woman. Anticipating her daily deluge of questions, trying to stay one step ahead of her thinking - it was a dance like no other.

Despite spending the better part of each day together brewing, Granger and he did not speak of personal matters, and he had only a vague idea what was occurring outside the walls of the Castle. It was easy to assume, therefore, that she had no life outside of what he saw in the laboratory.

Observing that small slice of her other life had roused... certain feelings in him that he was loath to name.

He liked her.

 _And so you want to be what?_ sneered a condescending voice in his head, _Friends? After all that's happened? You don't think that she is actually interested in anything you have to offer, do you? Be honest: the second this little project is completed, she'll be gone and won't look back. You've made damn sure of that._

And yesterday? Yesterday had been a folly of the worst kind. He hadn't meant to touch her… but that hair of hers had drawn in him in, and before he knew it…

It would take the assiduous, repeated application of Cruciatus before he'd admit it, but Snape found her hair to be absolutely fascinating. It was the utter antithesis of his; curling and vibrant where his was greasy and lank, multi-hued in shades of brown, red and blond mixed about in heady abandon, rather than his unrelieved, stark black lengths.

Granger came in each morning, her hair contained decorously in a neat braid, and as they brewed, it would seemingly take on a life of it's own. Curls would begin to make their cunning escape, to wind about an ear, or slither down her neck in a sneaky fashion. Absently, she would fuss with it, the effort only serving to free the riotous mass from its cruel confines. By the end of the day, it would resemble nothing more than nimbus, and he longed to sink his hands into it to see if felt effervescent as it looked.

She had resembled nothing more than a gloriously demented hedgehog when he quill had snapped and she'd gone hunting for her things; eyes flashing, and her wand, along with the other sundry items sticking up and out of the coiled masses in clear aggression.

And so he had reached out…

Her hair had slid like raw silk over his sensitive fingertips, the sheer tensile strength of coming as a surprise. When he'd pulled her wand out, the entire braid had shifted _en masse_ towards him, a landslide of jasmine-scent chaos, and he'd been lost.

It wasn't until he'd risked peering at her face, however, that the alarm bells started ringing. Her always-expressive amber eyes had gone wide with shock, and the faintest tinge of rose had started blooming on her cheeks. As he slowly removed the biro from behind her ear, he had realized that his discipline and self-control had finally failed him.

He wanted nothing more than to gather that mane of hair in his hands and give it a firm tug; bury his nose in it, and let it devour him whole.

Thankfully- cursedly- Poppy Pomfrey had walked in, and he was saved from making an utter fool of himself.

He did not think he could blame the bout of madness on the unicorn blood. But in all his years of teaching, he had never harboured such thoughts about a student, and he wasn't sure why he was starting to now.

In her corner of the lab, Granger made a low, pleased sound, and something in him stirred at the soft noise. He shifted, uneasy, and the movement drew her attention. She met his gaze without guile or pretence; eyes flicking briefly down vial, she offered him - well, the vial, really - a slight, lovely, smile.

"Almost there, I think," she murmured, her focus already returned to the work at hand.

Snape felt a wave of resentment wash over him and threaten to overwhelm the small measure of peace that he'd found. When in his life did he not want what he could not have? Taking a calming breath, he shoved his emotions into the deep freeze of his Occlumentic shields; felt the corresponding cold composure overtake him.

_You don't actually want Granger; you only want what she represents._

Dispassionately, he eyed her once more. Her left hand was covered with ink, and the right sleeve of her robe had a rather large hole in it, likely from the bubotuber pus she'd been working with earlier. The hair had gone frizzy. She looked younger, more vulnerable. _You'll get over it,_ that voice said again. _You did once before._

He returned to his own work.


	7. Battles

**_13 June 2009_ **

Hermione stood at the main door of the Hogwarts library peering in at the jumbled mess left behind, feeling a sense of keen sorrow at what she saw. Books, shelves, and half-broken tables obscured the majority of the flagstones; vivid shafts of summer sunlight fell through the wide, mullioned windows, further highlighting the rampant disorder below. Squinting to read the title of the book closest to her, she saw that it was a copy of _Holidays with Hags_. Remembering the youthful crush she'd had on Gilderoy Lockhart, Hermione had to smile. _Foolish, egotistical, lying fop he might have been, but he'd been a surprisingly good writer. Pity he'd been no good at much else..._

Rubbing slightly damp palms on her robe, she went through her mental checklist once again. After spending two days learning the wards of the wider Castle, Hermione was now ready to begin casting the first set of protections on the library proper. Much like building a coffer dam, the structures placed today would allow her to bleed the excess magical energy out of the stacks prior to laying the primary wards; if she simply tried to cast those sets of spells without doing so, she would likely be killed, and take half the Castle with her.

She knew that the collection - having spent five days free of any sort of human control, and therefore feeding off an unholy magical equivalent of _amuse-gueule_ \- was going to contest her domination; the real question was how much push-back there would be, and what constructs might be released as a result.

 _Good thing I brought in a ringer, then..._ In a reversal of roles, Snape was going to stand as her second, her assistant, and protect her from any bodily harm while she cast the protections. After discussing what sort of free magic elementals they might face, he had decided to return to his quarters and arm himself with more than just his wand - although what that meant, she wasn't sure. Still, the man had countless years working with dark wizards and even darker objects; Hermione wasn't concerned that he'd not be up to the challenge.

Indeed, after spending the last two days casting magic with him and watching him effortlessly manipulate the monstrously complex Hogwarts system of wards, she was more than a little in awe of him; in every way he was the antithesis to Gilderoy Lockhart, really, even to the man that she'd worked with so long ago. _Speaking of fancying a professor..._ a snarky voice said. _Admit it - if he wasn't Severus Snape, or if you didn't have the history with him that you do, you'd be asking him out for a pint, post-haste._

She did fancy him; there was no use lying to herself.

He wasn't a totally new man from the one she'd worked with all those years ago. Still possessing a dry and sarcastic mien, Hermione could see the remains of the prickly, distrustful professor. But in observing his interactions with the Hogwarts staff, and indeed, feeling the passionate intent behind his magic, she recognized that there had been a seismic shift in the man. No longer was he an island unto himself; at dinner the evening before she'd watched with no little amazement as he'd traded good-natured insults with several people, and had made sure that everyone - including her - had been involved and had a voice in the discussion.

Even with the stress of the week, the meal had felt like one taken amongst family. A slightly dysfunctional, somewhat drunken family, but a united one nonetheless.

Hermione turned as she heard the soft scrape of leather against stone, and saw Snape striding towards her. She froze, and it was all she could do to not let her jaw hit the ground. He had changed into a long-sleeved black button-up shirt, and had pulled his hair back into a neat queue; what caught her attention, however, was not what he wore, but what he was carrying.

It was a silver broadsword, topped with a large, blood-red ruby on the handle. Godric Gryffindor's sword.

"That was in your quarters?" she asked, before her natural filter could reassert itself.

"No." Glancing down at the weapon he held in one hand, a momentary look of baffled amusement flashed through his expression. "But it kept appearing when I was trying to find something else. After the third time, I decided to take the hint."

"Right," she said, for lack of anything else. "Are you ready?"

"When you are," he answered, the humour being replaced by a more serious intent.

Hermione nodded. Closing her eyes, she focused on bringing her calm to the surface; pushed aside all her pesky, personal thoughts and began to draw on her magic, the opening incantation ready in her mind. Walking forward, wand at the ready, she entered the Hogwarts Library.

* * *

Six hours later, Hermione was completely knackered, covered in an indigo, sticky substance that she fervently hoped was ink, and strangely ebullient. Righting a chair, she plopped down and grinned up at the man standing by her side.

"Well, wasn't that just buckets of fun," she jested sardonically, wiping some of the slime from her hands to her trousers.

"Oh, positively easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy," came the sarcastic reply. Placing the sword on the table carefully, Snape flexed his stiff hands several times experimentally, and then began methodically cleaning the blade with a fresh handkerchief pulled from a pocket. He was as rumpled as she, with his hair falling out of the queue haphazardly, and shirt tails oddly half-tucked. "If that's your idea of fun, you may want to take an extended holiday to St. Mungo's." Despite the insinuation, his words lacked any heat, and he had what suspiciously appeared to be the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"So speaketh the man who apparently likes to swim with the great squid for fun. In the dead of winter." She closed her eyes, feeling a sense of languid peace come over her now that the wards weren't metaphorically screaming at her.

"Who told you that?"

"Not telling." Cracking a tired eye open, she let her gaze fall upon a stack of books scattered on the floor next to her. With a muted sigh, she leaned down and picked them off the floor, closing the covers gently and smoothing the cracked spines with her fingers before putting them on the table.

Propping a hip against the nearest table, Snape said, "Only three people know that story, and Minerva generally keeps her mouth shut. Pomona, on the other hand, only needs a drink or two to get going..."

"Still not telling."

He continued to wipe the blade of the silver sword with easy, methodical swipes, watching Hermione in a deliberately calculating fashion; she found the movement of his hands suddenly hypnotizing. Recalling the warm weight of that hand from earlier that afternoon, she resisted the urge to shiver.

They'd reached the halfway point of the casting with no major issues; then, out of nowhere, a particular brutal wave of magic had nearly bowled her over. The wave had caused her concentration to falter, the words of the spell failing from her mind like nothing more than grains of sand, and Hermione had felt herself being drawn inexorably into the wards. Before she could react with any more than a quick surge of alarm, however, she'd felt his hand on her shoulder, and then a surge of his magic had abruptly augmented her own. She had only been able to spare him a brief glance as she renewed that step of the spell; his focus had been wholly on the surrounding space, but the look of fierce determination on his face, sword balanced easily at his side, had been seared into her memory.

 _He looks like a pirate, or a dark knight come back from a dangerous mission, standing like that..._ she thought, and then: ... _and you are officially, absolutely, bloody insane._ With an effort, she pulled her regard from his hands back to the library.

He snorted, apparently oblivious to her discomfort and then changed the subject. "What was the thing that looked like a cross between a lobster and demon?"

"That? It was a stilken. Slaying one of those is what got me a position at the Great Library of Alexandria, as a matter of fact."

"And the thing after that?"

"A hisch, I think. And the last one was a djinn of some sort. I'd like to know where that one came from..."

"All in a day's work for a librarian, then?"

"Yes," she said firmly, sitting a little straighter in the chair. "There is a reason that I had to earn a mastery just as you did."

"And what of my librarian?" he asked softly, mood gone serious.

She paused, seeing the clear concern written in his features, along with twin measures of guilt and responsibility. "I was able to extract her as the focus of the collection. That means that it will no longer be drawing from her as power source, but whether or not she'll wake, I've no idea..."

He gave her a bitter smile, and then proffered a hand up. "Come along, then. Given what's emerged out of the dark recesses of this space today, I won't leave you here alone, mastery or not, and I'd like to check on Noémi."

Something electric, almost knowing, passed between them the instant his palm clasped hers; she found herself pulled up a scant few inches away from the blatant heat of his lean form. Standing that close to him, she detected the alluring smell of linen, man and herbs. The familiar combination of scents prompted another visceral memory, but one from long ago; his lips on hers, teasing and hot...

Her gaze was drawn up to his, and she saw that his expression had suddenly gone still and shuttered.

Then one of his hands came up, and Hermione felt the subtle rasp of his thumb along her cheek. Her heartbeat turned both light and violent at his touch, like the futile thrashing of a sparrow caught in a net. His thumb stroked once again, and it was a struggle not to lean in and wordlessly beg for his hand to continue. To go elsewhere...

"You... you had something on your cheek," he finally murmured, voice gone dark.

"Oh," she replied, coherent thought taking a backseat to sensation.

Slowly, his other hand released her, and he moved back a cautious step. The languor of before had been completely erased by an unsettling concoction of desire and confusion. _This is Severus Snape,_ she thought. _Remember what happened before. Do not be taken in by this... facade._

Her common sense seemed to struggle back to life, and she stepped back. Deliberately, she forced herself to recall her last stay at Hogwarts, and how it ended.

As the memories of her final weeks in school receded, Hermione felt her heart rate start to return to normal, her skin cool. "Shall we head up to the Hospital Ward, then?" Her words were even and calm.

She thought she saw a sliver of regret before he answered. "Yes, lets..."

* * *

**_29 August 1999_ **

Severus Snape was a new man... inasmuch as that was possible at the age of forty. Hermione Granger had been correct; working together, they had been able to concoct a series of potions that had almost completely healed him. He could speak again, albeit more gruffly. He could also eat and drink; best of all, the horrid muscle spasms and the overall weakness had at first faded, then disappeared altogether. Whilst there were a few lingering issues, it was nothing as compared to before, and he found himself improbably preparing for another year of teaching potions to Hogwarts' newest horde of dunderheads.

All of which he owed in no small part to Hermione... and he had no blasted idea how he was going to repay that debt. Rather, he was quite certain that his next decision was going to both greatly injure her sensibilities and cement his universal reputation as an ungrateful arse - as if anyone needed any more proof after all these years.

Given the large group of above-age students returning to complete their seventh year, Minerva had decided to re-introduce a program of teaching assistants; for those who desired it, they would be able to both complete their N.E.W.T.s as well as a year of internship that would greatly help them going into either university or the job market. It would not only allow the older students a bit more freedom, but also provide the faculty with much needed assistance as they continued to restore and repair the Castle.

Unlike the other members of staff, however, he had only received two applications for assistantship: Draco Malfoy and Hermione. And unlike everyone else, he would only be taking one apprentice... Draco.

Minerva was going to have a fit, of that he was certain. But it couldn't be helped. He had developed a rather unhealthy fascination with Hermione Granger, bordering on the ridiculous. Maybe it was a by-product of ingesting that much unicorn blood, perhaps that he wasn't a spy living purely on adrenaline and stimulants anymore, or even the fact that he'd not seen someone die in a gruesome way for quite some time, but his libido, which had been dead for longer than Albus Dumbledore, had suddenly sprung to life. As a result, his appreciation for her had abruptly turned carnal and he felt like the worst kind of perv.

Much like the Ginger Menace - who had finally been cast aside, and who then had promptly and publicly taken up with Lavender Brown - he found himself unable to control his reaction to her. As there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever be able to tell her about his... feelings, he had resolved to stay far away from the witch. Spending time with her only left him angry, and worked up, and he was trying badly to not take his temper out on her.

After all she'd done for him, she deserved at least that small kindness.

With that resolution firm in his mind, he slunk into Minerva's office. Technically, it was still his office as well, although they'd come to an understanding about that several months prior; he had no wish to sit behind the big, black desk anytime soon, and she'd been unwilling to strip him of his title and powers. So he remained Headmaster - something no one seemed to realize - while publicly returning to his previous role as Head of House and Potions Master.

He tuned out the rolling conversation, muscles slowly tensing up as the meeting droned on. _It's not as if she's actually interested in potions, and I'm sure that she applied to plenty of the other professors... she requested the spot because it was expected of her, not because she wanted to work with you further..._

Finally, his moment of reckoning came. "Severus, I have Malfoy and Granger assigned to you..."

"No," he interrupted Minerva. As if on a hinge, all of the faces in the meeting swivelled in his direction and stared. "Just Malfoy."

"You can't be serious." Minerva gaped at him in open shock.

"I am." He swallowed convulsively, fighting the nervous urge to cough.

"And what," she asked in a voice gone cold as a Scottish winter, "...possible reason do you have for not taking her on?"

He cleared his throat, strove for the appearance of disinterested aloofness. "Because her true interest and talent lies in transfiguration, not potions."

"And yet, Hermione Granger applied to you, not I." The woman's tone had grown sharper, if that was possible. _Oh, bugger it all_ , he thought, stomach churning. _Why didn't she apply to Minerva?_

She went on. "You owe her that much, given what she's done for you. Besides which, it's not as if Malfoy has an abiding interest in potions."

"Actually, he does. Draco wants to be a Healer."

After a stunned beat of silence, the room erupted in startled exclamations; several people laughed, while most of the others loudly declared their disbelief. Finally, Poppy Pomfrey managed to cut through the chatter. "Is that why the boy signed up for volunteer shifts in the Hospital Wing?"

He nodded. "But why?" the Healer persisted, looking rather more curious than incredulous.

"After the Battle..." he paused, parsing his words carefully, "...Malfoy Manor was the only place safe for the remaining Death Eaters and their families. Many of them - including a fair amount of the Slytherin students - were too afraid to go to St. Mungo's for treatment. Narcissa and Draco ended up nursing a fair amount of people back to health for several months following the Battle."

Again, the room went dead quiet.

Minerva gathered her wits first. "As touching as that particular story is, it has no bearing on why you cannot also take Granger on."

 _Damn. So much for distracting her..._ He went to his backup plan. "She's falling apart." While it was the truth - since returning from Australia to visit her parents, she'd been a mess - it was also a piss-poor excuse, and he knew it.

"So because she's having some... readjustment issues, you, of all people, won't take her on?" Minerva's voice fairly dripped with scorn, and he found himself flushing in unaccustomed shame.

He met her gaze, and hoped to Merlin that for once the woman would see enough in his expression to understand that he had perfectly good reasons behind his excuses.

"I can't help her," he said, meaning it. Hermione needed someone to support her, and that person was clearly not him. She should work with someone who knew how to ask questions... and care; he had no idea how to build that bridge, more or less cross it.

"No, you won't help her," Minerva retorted, truly incensed once having seen in his gaze that he would not bend on this matter. "The distinction is a clear one."

"It would be the blind leading the blind," he spat, temper finally warming up. In her own way, the woman was as unmindful as Albus; even after all that they had gone through, she still couldn't trust his underlying motives. Snape glared at her, equally indignant because she'd pushed him in a corner and painted him the villain once again.

"I'll take her on myself," she said eventually, looking away from him in clear disgust. "Although I have no idea how I'll break that particular bit of news to her. I should make you do it."

The rest of the staff hardly seemed to be breathing for fear of being likewise lambasted; several winced at the threat implicit in the Headmistress' last words.

And just like that, Snape felt the anger leave him, leaving only a sense of helpless desolation. For someone who'd been given a second chance, he was certainly screwing it up fast enough.

"And in doing so, you would only cause her to be hurt further," he murmured, real regret leaking into his statement.

Minerva ignored him roundly. "Pomona, let's move on to you. Longbottom is clearly a shoo-in..."

Glancing down at his hands, he worked to make himself invisible. As the attention of the others began to drift away, he became aware that at least one person had yet to stop watching him; peering through the curtain of his hair, Snape saw the soft - but sharp - eyes of Poppy Pomfrey on him.

She gave him a long look that seemed to be equal parts pity and understanding. Minerva, with all her anger, had not picked up the real reason he was trying to stay away from Hermione. It appeared, however, that the Healer might have stumbled upon the truth.

 _Well, at least that one will keep her mouth shut_ ,he thought in glum resignation.


	8. Rejections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahoy. Prepare yourself...

**_31 August 1999_ **

Despite the lingering balm of summer sun that fell over Hogwarts' grounds, Hermione had to chase back a shiver as she entered the Castle with her trunks. Absently, she noted that the restoration of the school was finally complete; seeing the perfectly pristine walls and corridors gave her curiously hollow feeling. It was almost as if the Battle of Hogwarts had not happened, that the last year and half had been nothing but a horrid dream…

But it had happened, and now she was paying the price for all decisions that she had made.

Some of the costs were easier to bear than others. She still wasn't speaking to Ron; their breakup had been spectacularly messy, especially as he'd started up with Lavender again a mere week after they'd called it quits. It had made things rather awkward between her and the rest of Weasleys, although Molly had made a particular effort to tell her that there were no hard feelings, and that they still considered her a part of the family.

Not surprisingly, Ron had not decided to come back to Hogwarts and finish his final year; he had elected to work with George at the joke shop. It had been a shock, however, when she'd found out the Harry, Ginny, Neville and Luna were also taking the Ministry exemptions and not returning. She'd wavered then- she had no real wish to come back to Hogwarts without any of her friends.

But her mind had not been made up until she, Harry and an Unspeakable had gone to Australia to fetch her parents, and it had all completely blown up in her face. They had managed to return her parents' memories- a painful, painstaking process that had almost taken a month- but they could not restore the love or sentiment that had bound them together as family. The returned memories were only thin veneer of what they should have been; there was no emotional resonance behind them, and accordingly, her parents had been horrified by her actions… by her unilateral decisions, by the power she could wield over their lives with just a flick of her wand… There had been nothing of her parents left, only rejection and fear. She and Harry had stayed in the Sydney suburb for another month, to no avail. Her parents had not softened in that time, and had made it quite clear that they wished for her to leave, and not darken their doorstep ever again.

Upon returning, Hermione had been offered her pick of jobs at the Ministry, but in light of her abject failure to fix her parents, she could not stomach the notion of taking on any responsibility. She spent the week following her return to England sequestered in Grimmauld Place before she'd finally found a spark of her former inspiration.

Professor Snape could help her.

He was the best legillimencer in all of Britain, and the only Potions Master to boot. Surely there was some combination of the two that could truly restore her parents' memories and emotions; working together, they could create something, just like they'd done for him…

Moreover, the thought of returning to Hogwarts was a comforting notion. She could bury herself into books and academia. She could find a bit of oblivion, a measure of peace. It would be better than her friends weren't there to distract her; fixing her parents had to be her overriding goal.

With a huff, she lowered her trunk to the floor and gazed around. Her first inclination was to go straight up to Professor Snape's quarters in the Hospital Wing and begin inquiries with him into possible avenues of research; it would be best to get several hours in at the Library tonight before the remainder of the students returned and started checking books out. On the other hand, she needed to get unpacked. Once the term started, she knew that she'd be incredibly busy…

Hermione sighted a note sitting propped up on the bedside table. Picking it up, she broke the wax seal and opened it.

The graceful, curving script was familiar to her; it was from the Headmistress.

**"** **Miss Granger-**

**Please come up to my office as soon as you arrive so that we may discuss your schedule. The password is '** **nemo me impune lacessit'.**

**Yours- M. McGonagall"**

_Well,_ she thought, a hint of foreboding blossoming in her belly, _that's as good as an order. I'll start there, and then go find Professor Snape._

* * *

Hermione perched on the chair across from the big black desk and observed the Headmistress as she methodically went through the stack of student schedules, searching for the correct one. Finally locating it, the older woman pushed it across the table to Hermione for perusal.

"I have assigned you the sections that you requested in your letter. Are there any changes you wish to make?"

Looking down, Hermione scanned the class list and saw that it was all in order. "No, I think that this will do for now." She gave the woman a faint smile. "My dream of having ten N.E.W.T.s seems all rather foolish now. Far better, I think, to take fewer classes and save myself some of the unnecessary stress."

McGonagall sighed. "I don't know if I'd call it foolish, my dear. Just a different dream, from a different time. I must admit, however, that I was relieved that you elected to only take eight courses this year. As much as we will endeavour to make this a normal school year, there are bound to be challenges that will make matters more… difficult. For that reason alone, I am glad that you are limiting your course work a tad."

The Headmistress shifted slightly in her seat, and it occurred to Hermione that the woman appeared almost… uncomfortable.

Still, her emerald gaze was steady as she continued to speak. "Now, in the normal manner of things, you would undoubtedly be the Head Girl. Even before the events of last year, you were the clear favourite for the post. However… given some of our conversations, I gathered that you were not interested in the position."

"No," Hermione said in a rush, thinking of all the responsibility, as well as all of the attention that it would require of her. "I don't want to be Head Girl."

"Good." McGonagall said with a sharp nod. "I thought not, and have accordingly made some other plans. You shall be my assistant instead."

Hermione felt her stomach drop. _No, no, no!_ she thought, anxiety pressing at her. _I need to be Professor Snape's assistant. That's why I applied to him. Oh, how am I going to decline this without insulting her?_

"I…" Hermione started, at a loss. "I don't know what to say. I mean, I am just… surprised. I didn't think that I was done assisting Professor Snape. There were several variants of the healing potion we had discussed making when I returned…"

She trailed off, and looked across the desk at the Headmistress, hoping that she hadn't sounded as ungrateful as she felt.

"Be that as it may," McGonagall said, manner gone stiff, "…it was decided that for a variety of reasons, it would be more… appropriate to have you as my assistant."

"Will Professor Snape be taking on another student?" Hermione asked. _Just because I'm not his official teaching assistant doesn't mean I can't work with him. Surely he'll help me…_

The older woman's lips compressed into a thin line. "Draco Malfoy. It is my understanding that he desires to be come a Healer."

Hermione became aware that the Headmistress was suddenly not meeting her gaze, and a cold understanding formed in her mind. "He said no, didn't he?" she asked bluntly, twin blades of betrayal and anger sprouting within her.

The silence following her question was ugly, but the Headmistress did her courtesy of at least not outright lying to her. "Professor Snape believes- as do I- that you would be better served by working with me."

Very carefully, Hermione folded her schedule and placed it in her pocket. Ruthlessly, she clamped down on her emotions, lest she make a total fool of herself. She rose from the chair. "Very well. Is there anything else I need to know before tomorrow?"

"No. I believe that is all."

"Then I'd better go and unpack," Hermione stated, not wishing to stay in the room any longer. With a jerk, she turned and made for stairwell.

"Miss Granger…" McGonagall said, her Scottish accent suddenly more pronounced. "…I did not get a chance to earlier to ask if your parents have settled back into London successfully."

Hermione's hand tightened painfully on the doorknob. The vivid recollection of her last meeting with her parents superimposed itself on her vision: Her Mum and Dad, holding hands on an unfamiliar sage settee, in an oddly modern lounge. "We need some time to process all of… this information," her Mum had stated, in a typically restrained and English fashion. "We will write when we are ready to discuss matters with you again." The words had been dismissively polite, and had hinted at a future rapprochement. But the revulsion and betrayal in their stares had told another story.

 _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_ , their stares had said, and so she and Harry had left for Britain the next day.

Hermione took a jagged breath in, abruptly returned to her time and place. The wood panel of the door had an abstract pattern of runes etched on it; in the faint designs, she could she the ancient symbols for wisdom, peace and learning. She turned her head and looked coolly back at Minerva McGonagall.

"They elected to stay in Australia."

* * *

She swept into the Hospital Wing on the wings of that icy calm, going directly to the back door that led into Professor Snape's lab and quarters. She opened the door without knocking, and stepped in, coming to halt only when it registered that the familiar accoutrements of the laboratory had been replaced by isolation beds and storage cabinets.

Turning at the slight sound of rustling, she saw Madame Pomfrey approaching, a welcoming smile on her face. "Miss Granger, how are you?"

Hermione ignored the greeting. "Where is he?"

Sorrow, and something else flitted across the Healer's expression before she veiled it. "Professor Snape has returned to his own quarters. He is well enough now that he has no need to be in the Hospital Wing."

"Where are his rooms?" she asked, pleased that her voice only carried a thread of anger.

"I don't think that it's a wise idea…" the Healer started.

"Where are his rooms?" Hermione demanded again, and stepped towards the woman.

Madame Pomfrey stepped to the side of the doorway, allowing Hermione clear egress. "Do you know where the statue of Gregory the Solipsistic is?.."

* * *

Hermione used the long walk to the dungeons to calm her temper. _Why,_ she thought, her mind finally past the shock of rejection, _did he not want me to be his assistant?_ After their incredibly rough start, they had managed to cobble things together into a surprisingly solid team. And she had left him on good terms- he had even unbound enough to wish her a safe journey. She had seen him twice since returning, and he'd been polite both times. So if it wasn't her, why had he chosen Draco over her?

Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy… McGonagall's words came back to her then: "Other than that… odious man, we've all betrayed him countless times." It must be for that reason, then. Loyalty… and familial ties. Hermione knew that Professor Snape was Draco's godfather, and the family's fortunes and standing were in a perilous place. Draco would all the help he could get to try an overcome the events of the past several years. A prestigious fellowship with Britain's only Potions Master would help, even if said Potions Master was rather tarnished himself.

_And it's not as if you and Draco have ever gotten along; no one in their right mind would want to referee an entire year of ill will and bickering. Given that it's potions we are talking about, we would all likely end up poisoned, or worse…_

The thought of being around Draco… of being polite to him, made her skin crawl. She knew that he'd been a victim of sorts, too, and had suffered under the lash of Voldemort. But then so had she- on his library carpet, no less- and besides, he had been a prat from day one…

_If it's your only chance to work with Snape, you can and will suck it up and deal with it. If you explain that to him, and they you need his help, he won't say no. He can't, not after all you've done for him…_

Resolute, she knocked on his door and waited, trying not fidget.

It swung open on silent hinges, revealing Professor Snape. Oddly, her first rush of emotions upon seeing him wasn't anger, but relief and affection. Something inside her, the bubbling panic that been her constant companion for many weeks, calmed and she took a breath in.

He looked… better. While Professor Snape still wore his customary black robes, he no longer resembled a walking skeleton. In addition to putting on a bit of weight, his colour was also loads improved. Not sallow yellow, as it had been when she was a student, nor the horrid grey of his recovery, but the normal pallid white of an Englishman. She couldn't see his neck, but if the clean lines of his collar were any indication, it too had finally healed. The dark circles under his eyes made her think that he'd not been sleeping well; that was the only thing that indicated that all was not as it should be.

"You look better," Hermione blurted, feeling herself blush at the inanity of her greeting.

"I am much improved," he murmured, voice still a shade smokier than it ought to be.

"I just spoke with the Headmistress. She said that you were taking Draco Malfoy as your assistant." Hermione stopped, the blank lines of his face causing the fear in her belly to start up again. She had gotten used to being able to read a certain amount of emotion in his expression, but this… it was if someone had animated a statue for all the human warmth that lay behind his continence.

"I have taken Draco for my assistant," he affirmed stiffly.

"I would have you reconsider taking me on as well," she began, the words falling out of her mouth like water. "I'm not asking you to change anything with Draco, but I don't want to be Professor McGonagall's assistant. I want to be yours."

She saw absolutely no reaction.

"I promise you, I'll work with him. We won't fight. I'll help him in anyway I can… I just…" she whispered, throat tightening as tears began to prick at her eyes.

His voice was measured and even when he interrupted the stuttering flow of her words. "Miss Granger, this is not a topic open for debate. Unless there is something further that you need, I will bid you a good evening."

For a fleeting second, she contemplated spilling out the whole sordid story about her parents and asking for his help. But he had never shown any interest in her personal life before, and certainly hadn't been moved by her practically begging him to change his mind…

She gazed up at him, trying to keep the hurt and betrayal out of her expression. "Please," she tried one more time, biting her lip to keep the tears from falling.

"No." He stepped back and shut the door.

For a second time that afternoon, Hermione found herself staring at the smooth wood panel of a door; unlike the one in the Headmistress' office, however, this one was perfectly blank.

Hermione tasted blood, and realized that she'd broken the skin on her lip. Mechanically, she headed for her room.

* * *

The sun was setting low on the horizon when she finally got herself pulled back together. Wiping a damp cloth across her face, she erased the signs of her tears and pulled her damp hair back from her face. Gingerly, she sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the unopened lid of her trunk.

 _I could leave,_ she thought, and the idea was a welcome one until she contemplated what she would do after that. _I don't want to become an Auror. I don't want to work for the Ministry. What would I do if I slunk back to Grimmauld Place?_

And that was the dig. She had no idea what to do next. Her life hadn't just gone to hell in a hand basket, she had pushed it there in a bloody hand cart.

_I could go to McGonagall and tell her what really happened to my parents. What I did to them…_

But the thought only prodded a nascent bud of anger to the surface of her mind. In her own way, McGonagall had used her- used her to help fix Snape- and notion of admitting her own failings and asking for help was a bitter one. Rightly or wrongly, she felt deceived by the woman, and had little faith that she could affect a solution.

And Snape… the rage and anger that billowed up at the mere thought of his name nearly choked her. After all she'd done for him- all that work, not mention the frozen nights waiting for the unicorns- that he could so easily deny her request, made her spitefully wish that their cure had not been so effective. That he still suffered…

With a deep, shuddering breath, she once again yanked her emotions firmly under her control.

 _I can't let myself get distracted, not yet. My goal needs to be researching the links between memory and emotions. As bitter as it may seem, my best option is to stay here and finish this year out. I can use the library to do research into possible solutions_ , she thought grimly _. It will probably take the better part of the year to come up with a plan, anyway._

* * *

_**23 September 1999** _

Snape had just finished teaching the third years when Poppy Pomfrey came storming in like the Spanish Inquisition. "Severus, the girl is near collapse, and she won't talk to anyone. Something must be done…"

He didn't have to ask what girl the Healer was referring to. "As she is neither in my House, nor my assistant, I'm not sure why you think it's my problem," he muttered, hating how callus he'd sounded. How cowardly his excuse was…

Hermione had withdrawn completely from the students and staff- even Minerva- in favour of isolating herself in the library and immersing herself into massive stacks of books. Any attempt at engaging her was met with a flat, cold condescension. He hadn't even bothered to try- the carefully banked raw fury in her gaze when she looked at him had spoken volumes.

Unsurprisingly, his words sparked the Healer's anger. "No, and you've made ruddy sure of that."

"And you know why!" he spat at her, all of his emotions coming out at once. "You full well know why I've chosen to stay away. I may be a Death Eater, a murderer, a liar and torturer, but I'll be damned if I add lecher to my list of sins!"

"You are a bloody fool, Severus Snape. Tell me, what's more important, your pride, or her well being?" Without waiting for answer, she poked him- hard- and hissed, "Something is seriously wrong with her, and it's not just because you and Minerva have conveniently chosen to stick your heads up your collective arses. Someone needs to step in and help her with whatever it is she's been researching before she kills herself. I'd do it myself, but she won't give me the time of day."

"What do you mean, what she's researching?" Snape asked, bewildered. "She's doing revision for her N.E.W.T.s."

The Healer sucked in her breath, and let it out slowly in a failed bid to ease her temper. "Let's put the facts together, shall we? Miss Granger was fine- in as much as one can be following a bloody and rather personal war- until she goes and tries to retrieve her parents, who have supposedly been in hiding in Australia. Now, in all of my interactions with her parents, they proved to be quite loving and doting. So why did they not come back with her? That's question number one." She jabbed her finger into his sternum again, and he winced. "Let's move on the research she's been doing. It's all about memory, memory charms, and family bonding magics. Why? Put the facts together, and what do they tell you, Severus?"

"She Obliviated her parents," he said, stunned that Hermione would resort to such a ruthless tactic. And if she'd actually Obliviated her parents... well, in some cases you could restore the memories, but one could never fully regain the emotions behind them; little wonder her parents had reacted to her in such a negative manner. "Poppy… you can't fix that."

"I know. You know that as well… and I am quite sure that she is aware of that horrid little fact. But it hasn't stopped her from trying to fix matters. Remember, this is very same person that was instrumental in defeating Voldemort- whilst keeping perfect grades- and managed to heal your sorry excuse for a corpse when no one else could make a dent in the issue. So I'll ask you again, Severus- what is more important, your pride, or her well being?"

Without another word, Poppy turned and left the classroom.

* * *

He was a bloody idiot.

Eyes sweeping through the private courtyard in a vain attempt to spot Hermione, Snape had almost given up when he saw a flash of Gryffindor red through the next row of plants. Stealthy, he slipped into the gap between two large potted hedges; peeking through the leaves, he confirmed that she was alone.

She looked miserable, curled up in the corner of a bench. If possible, she'd lost even more weight in the week since he'd last seen her, and everything about her - including her normally buoyant curls - was flat. Hands tightening on the peace offering clutched in his hands, Snape was just about step free of the greenery when he heard another person entering from other archway.

"Hermione?" Although it had been over a year since he'd last heard that particular voice, it only took a split second before he placed it: Potter.

"Harry?" she asked, startled out of some of her apathy.

The boy stopped several metres shy of the bench and gave her an appraising look. "Oh, Hermione... you said you were doing alright..."

"I lied," Hermione, trying to inject some life in her tone and failing. "I didn't want you to worry during your field exams..."

Potter sounded both mad and concerned when he interrupted her. "You matter far more than any bloody Auror exams. Besides, I hardly think they are going to sack me, regardless of any poor results."

"I know..." she started, and then promptly burst into tears.

Potter's reaction was instantaneous. Scooping the woman up in his arms, he sat down on the bench, and began stroking her back in a comforting fashion. Snape felt a flare of relief - someone was taking care of her, at least - that was quickly subsumed in a familiar tidal wave of jealousy and ire at the boy. _It would have to be Potter, wouldn't it?_

As preoccupied with that well-worn train of thought as he was, Snape almost missed her next words. "Oh, Harry... I can't get their faces out of my mind. The way they looked at me... like I was the worst person in the world." He heard her sob, and saw her back move with each shudder of pain. "I might as well have killed them, because... because they aren't my parents any more."

To his great surprise, Potter didn't say much, just let her cry. Meanwhile, Snape stood motionless in the bushes, sick with notion that Poppy had been correct

_"I might as well have killed them, because... because they aren't my parents any more."_

That did not sound like people who had willingly gone into hiding, which left only one real alternative. Potter's next comments seem to confirm the theory. "Hermione, listen to me: your parents would have been killed had they stayed here, and you and I both know that they would have never willingly gone without you. You kept them alive..."

"And now they hate me, and there is nothing I can do to fix it..."

That shut Potter up. Any satisfaction he might have found in that was lost in his worry for Hermione.

A cold fall breeze blew through the courtyard, causing the few leaves scattered about to rustle unpleasantly over the uneven ground. "I'm so sorry, Hermione." He heard genuine sorrow in Potter's reply, and he seemed close to tears himself.

"Don't you dare say it was your fault, Harry James Potter!" Hermione sat bolt upright from the boy's lap and gave him a hard glare. "There are plenty of people to blame - like Voldemort - and it wasn't like you knew what I was planning to do..."

He put a pacifying hand up. "I know. I just wish... well, I wish I could wave my wand and make it all better, that's all."

"Me too." She curled up next to him again, and rested her head on his shoulder.

They sat like that for quite some time, seemingly content together in the quiet of the Castle's mid-afternoon lull. Meanwhile, the swirl of competing emotions had Snape glued to his spot. Seeing Weasley paw at her had been bad enough, but Potter? _I thought he carried a torch for the Weasley girl... maybe not. But they never seemed to fancy each other when they were at school..._

It was a scant comfort, but at least he had seen that Hermione was willing to talk to one person; she was not completely alone. As much as he hated the boy, he did not think that Potter would turn his back on Hermione.

As the sun finally slipped over the edge of the courtyard wall and the temperature dipped, Snape turned to leave. He'd been on a fool's errand; to stay any longer and watch the nauseating display was only a further invitation to pain.

Hermione's voice stopped him. "So have you finally heard about your results?"

Potter was boyish in his enthusiasm. "I passed. I'm officially an Auror." Hermione let out a little squeal and threw her arms around his neck.

"I knew you would do it, Harry!"

"I want you to come to the ceremony tonight, Hermione. It wouldn't be right to not have you by my side for something so important."

"I'm not so sure..."

"Listen, I have it all set with McGonagall: she said that you could even spend the weekend in London with me if you wish." Snape nearly flinched at the pictures that comment produced, but was unable to pull himself away until he heard her answer.

"I could leave..." she trailed off, and then seemed to come to a conclusion. "Alright. Let's go right now."

"Don't you have one more class today?" Potter asked, surprised.

"Yes." Again, that pause. "Potions."

"About that," the boy began awkwardly. "Madame Pomfrey said that you and Snape got rather friendly last year..."

"Never mind that, Harry," she said in a rush. "I'll skive off. I really do want to leave now."

"You want to skip a class?" Potter asked, placing a hand upon her brow, checking for fever. "Is it really all that bad?"

Snape felt his heart pounding loudly in his ears. _Here it comes..._

Her answer was flat. "Yes. If I can get out of his class, all the better." Potter looked at her, doubt playing across his features. "I mean it, Harry. He might have saved us, but that doesn't mean that he isn't a vile and despicable man. If McGonagall would let me drop his class, I would."

The breeze picked up, turning into a chill wind that spoke of winter, not autumn. Snape took a deep breath, reaching as always for the numbing comfort of Occlumency. Feeling his mental shields settle over him like an old friend, he glanced down at the book in his hands - _Potion Craft in Memory Spells -_ \- and felt... nothing.

With a ripple of his black robes, Snape turned and headed for the dungeons, not caring at all if the couple on the bench saw him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McGonagall's password, 'Nemo me impune lacessit', is the motto of the Royal Stuart dynasty of Scotland, and has been affiliated with Jacobite movement. Roughly translated, it means, "No one will assault me with impunity."


	9. Love and Hate

**27 October 1999**

Hermione looked down in shock at the small, apologetic 'Poor' that was written on the corner of her Charms test, and then up to Professor Flitwick's expression, which appeared almost as ashamed as hers.

"Miss Granger, I know things have been less than easy for you this year..." the man squeaked, "...but I have no problem with you re-taking the exam after a quick bit of revising. Your work is normally so flawless..."

Twenty minutes later, she still couldn't believe that she had failed her first exam. Stumbling through the hallways, Hermione found herself arriving in the Potions classroom without any memory of how exactly she had made it there. It wasn't until she crossed the threshold of the door that she realized that she was almost twenty minutes early. But before she could turn around, Professor Snape emerged from the Potions storeroom, several small vials in hand.

He likewise stopped and stared at her, face set in his customarily disagreeable mien. Since their disastrous meeting at the start of the year, she'd made it her mission to spend as little time interacting with the loathsome man as possible; to that end, she stopped coming to Potions early, had refrained from asking any questions - or answering them - in his class, and had only interacted with him politely when absolutely forced to do so. Her ill feelings - and his, apparently - had made it such that they spent each class passive-aggressively sniping at each other. It was a petty response, she knew, but a satisfying one.

"What is the matter?" Snape asked, his voice catching roughly on the unfamiliar words.

"Nothing!" Hermione spat back at him before she could form any other response. The man gave her a hard glare, deposited the potions ingredients on the front bench, and promptly left the front room.

Forced to enter the dungeon, Hermione sat down at the back table closest to the door; it wasn't ideal - the drafts coming from the rest of dungeon played havoc on the flames under the cauldron and kept it from heating evenly - but it was the farthest from the front of the class. Pulling out her Charms book, she began to flip through it in a desultory manner, unable to focus on the words within.

Why had he asked how she was doing?

It wasn't as if he cared about her in any way, shape or form. As a matter of fact, once she'd been no more use to him, he'd quickly reverted back to his usual self - picking Draco over her for the Potions assistantship only being the prime example.

The rejection had been such a nasty shock. She had not been foolish enough to think that they had been friends- or even friendly- but she had thought that he had at least respected her. But it was more than that; working with Snape in the laboratory was the only place that she wasn't a failure… the one place that she felt in control, or something like the Hermione Jean Granger from before all the madness with Voldemort. Now she felt as though she was spinning completely out of control.

Hermione glanced down at her failed Charms exam, and a bubble of hysterical laughter nearly erupted from her. _Oh, god,_ she thought _. I've just failed my first exam. How on earth am I going to make it through the rest of this year?_

A babble of noise suddenly came from behind her; turning she saw the first several students begin to trickle into the Potions classroom. With a sigh, she closed her Charms textbook, and began to set up her cauldron.

* * *

"Neville..." she hissed, "...wait another twenty stirs before adding the powdered asphodel."

"But Hermione, the instructions say..."

"Do you trust me?" She glared at him over the steaming space of their cauldrons, gripping the stirring rod hard enough that her hand started to hurt. "If you wait to add asphodel, it will react more strongly with the wormwood, and then you don't have to add as much valerian root..."

"Yeah, but we're using pickled sloths brains, not fresh..."

Hermione completed the last of her clockwise turns on her own potion and started anticlockwise. "Watch..." With a deft flick of her wrist, she added the asphodel at the top of the twentieth turn, and the bubbling potion turned a beautiful shade of violet. "See..." she started to say, looking up at Neville with undisguised triumph.

Then her cauldron exploded.

She yipped in pain as the hot potion hit her, not managing to duck under the table in her distraction. Neville was also lightly splattered in the goo, and blinked owlishly at her through the smoke. The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention a scant second before she heard his silky voice from her right side. "Are you incapable of following instructions, Miss Granger?"

Neville's voice, high and slightly reedy, came from her other side. "She was trying to help me, Professor Snape."

He spared the boy a withering glance. "By blowing up her own cauldron? I think not." He turned back to her. "This class is not Potions by committee, Miss Granger. Twenty points from Gryffindor for failing to following instructions, as well as cheating."

Hermione whirled on the man, feeling something within her start to break lose. "We weren't cheating, and you know it! I was only showing Neville..."

"Sit down." He intoned the order precisely, crisply. "Despite what you may think, you are not an expert at potions; I am still the instructor in this room, not you. I will not tolerate your pathological need to be an insufferable know-it-all any longer..."

Her vision went red, and then seem to narrow; she felt like her heart was galloping out of her throat. Without any conscious thought to do so, she found that her wand was drawn and pointed at him. "My pathological need to be an insufferable know-it-all..?!"

Stepping away from her table, she advanced on him. "And tell me, Severus Snape, where would you be without my help?"

Whatever answer the man would have made was interrupted by Draco Malfoy. Stepping neatly between her and Snape, the Slytherin said calmly, "Granger, look down at your arm."

She did, and almost gagged at the sight.

The lower part of her forearm was a violent, bloody red, with large raised blisters covering the majority of it; she abruptly felt the overwhelming pain of the burn, along with the many others that dotted her body.

There was a resounding 'pop', and then the world went swiftly dark.

* * *

She awoke in the dim twilight of the Hospital Ward, skin throbbing and arm wrapped up tighter than a mummy.

A shape appeared at her bedside and before she could do more than jump, it resolved itself into Poppy Pomfrey.

"Drink this," the Healer murmured. "It will help with the pain."

Hermione did as she was ordered, choking a bit at the foul taste. Still, she managed to get it down, and experienced an immediate lessening of all sensation. Floating on a cloud of detachment, she glanced up at the older woman, vaguely wondering why she seemed so... sad.

"My dear, what happened?"

"My cauldron exploded." She inhaled deeply, the subtle pressure of her lungs expanding in her ribcage feeling oddly alien to her.

"I know that. I meant after..." Madame Pomfrey's hand cupped Hermione's cheek, directing her wandering gaze upward and prompting an answer. "Mr. Longbottom said that you almost hexed Professor Snape..."

"I hate him." Hermione said, a stubborn thread of anger working loose from the detachment.

"Do you?" Madame Pomfrey asked. "Because I am reminded of that old adage about there being a fine line between love and hate."

"...hate..." Hermione sank back into the darkness, vaguely grateful that she had a ready-made excuse for not answering any further questions.

* * *

When she awoke the next time, the Hospital Ward was somnolent and warm; the only illumination came from the single candle flickering on her bedside table. Rolling onto her side, Hermione watched the flame for several minutes, content to let her mind wander.

Love. Hate.

She wasn't in love with him.

But by god, she hated him. Sometimes.

Because there had been these little moments, these little flashes of genuine... understanding. Fellowship. Perhaps mutual appreciation? None of those phrases were quite correct, but put together, they did an adequate enough job of describing what the last several months of their project had been like.

Snape hadn't been friendly, or effusive in his praise, or anything of the like; he'd been relentless in his expectation of perfection, more than a little obsessive, and perfectly willing to push her to her limits. But then again, he'd held himself to the same gold standard so it had not felt completely unfair.

What had started out as a battle of wills had morphed into a meeting of the minds. He'd challenge her on a topic, and she'd meet him halfway, usually with a metric tonne of questions and tangents. They would go back and forth - him throwing research material at her like it was going out of style, and her making him prove every point, picking every bone of contention. She'd learned to read the lines and planes of his expression; could tell when he was bluffing, when he was undecided on a topic, and the rare occasion that he'd agreed with her. It was so exhilarating, matching wits with the man...

It was freeing, being around someone who did not see her as a freak, did not think that her predilection for research and knowledge was an odd thing. More than that, Hermione truly hadn't cared what he thought of her, at least not at the start of the project, and it had been accordingly easy to take philosophical and rhetorical risks.

And at some point, his mask had started to slip, or maybe she'd just started to see the possibilities in him. She found it increasingly impossible not to see the man in a more sympathetic light, not in the face of all that she was learning. Snape had given her several more of his research journals to read, and she'd been utterly horrified at what Albus Dumbledore had asked of him. Much like the one detailing his knowledge about Nagini, the research journals had described - in painstaking, methodical, gut-wrenching detail - torture and abuse and dark things that had made her physically sick to read.

Once - and only once - she'd expressed shock at the gratuitous violence that he'd been subjected to. He appeared baffled by her reaction, and had finally shrugged his shoulders, a simple sentence appearing on the board. "There wasn't any other option."

It had taken six months of hard, often times bitterly frustrating work, but everything had come together and they'd finally successfully tested the antivenin. The sight of him - equal parts nervous, fearful, and excited, and hiding it all rather poorly - would have made her smile had she not been a right nervy mess herself. His hand had been shaking so badly that he not been able to hold the pipette steady enough against the phial to place of the drop of antivenin in. She'd stuck her hand out - amazed at her own outward calm - and done it for him.

For three, long, seconds nothing had happened... but then, slowly, steadily the potion had turned blue, indicating that the venom inside had been neutralized. Snape had collapsed upon a stool, boneless and graceless; then he'd looked up her and smiled.

It was a singular, sweet smile. His eyes had warmed, and all at once his expression had filled with life... with hope. She'd started to smile back him when Madame Pomfrey had entered - the woman had taken to checking on their progress several times a day - and the mask had slid back over his expression. He had started to badger the Healer about taking the potion himself, and that been the end of that. A week later, she'd been in Australia with Harry and an Unspeakable, trying to un-Obliviate her parents.

It had been all downhill from there.

So, no she wasn't in love with him. But she suddenly recalled the breathless moments as he'd pulled her pens and quills from her hair, as well as the more ordinary sparring that had made up their daily interactions, and rather thought that there could have been something, if... well, if almost everything had been different.

And now? It wasn't just him that had made her life unpleasant at Hogwarts; she was doing a good enough job of that on her own. Truth be told, the classes and activities that had given her so much joy previously were now the bane of her daily existence. After so long scrambling to survive, working on things that mattered, a return to theoretical and the textbook was anathema. Her classes chafed; the restrictions of Hogwarts seemed childish. Sleep, when it came, was full of nightmares, and even her magic - something that she had always counted on - had gone off. There seemed little point to revising, because no matter what she did, nothing new would stick in her head. Even her only driving force- trying to find something that would help her parents- had proven to be no match against the crushing sense of failure that had utterly taken over her life.

Hermione glanced down at her arm, feeling a flush of shame fill her cheeks. _And then I went off like an absolute berk in the middle of class. Not that he didn't deserve some of that, but I should have had better sense than to lose control in front of everyone._

Her stomach twisted, and the thought of facing everyone... of facing him, made a sweat start to break out. _I don't want to be here_ , she thought fiercely. _I don't want to learn from this episode. I don't want to deal with any of this._

 _Then leave..._ insinuated a sneaky voice. _You don't have to finish this year to take your N.E.W.T.s... do you even know what you want to do once you finish all that, anyway?_

Hermione recalled her lone weekend away from Hogwarts. She had actually slept a full night, for what seemed like the first time since she'd returned from Australia. She and Harry had gone for several long rambles through Muggle London, and she'd luxuriated in the feeling of being anonymous, of not being constantly on display. She'd been... happy.

Her mind whirled with possibilities; it wasn't as if taking a gap year - well, at least in the Muggle world - was all that odd. And try as she might, the negatives came nowhere close to outweighing the positives. Was she wanting to run away? Yes... but wasn't that better that than truly losing the plot?

Seizing her wand from where it was lying next to the candle, she cast a quick _tempus_ charm; seeing that it was only half-past eleven, she knew the Headmistress would still be up. Sitting up and swinging her feet to the cool floor, Hermione was suddenly electrified with purpose.

Then the pull of bandages on her arm reminded her why she was in the Hospital Ward in the first place. Fleetingly, she pondered waiting until morning to make any major life changes. But the thought of waiting was not one to be borne, and she found herself slipping on her shoes and heading to the door before she could stop herself.

* * *

The Headmistress was stunned.

Hermione had framed it as more a break, rather than a total leave-taking, but they both could read between the lines.

"There's nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?" Professor McGonagall finally asked.

"No."

For a long moment, the Headmistress gazed at the all-black portrait behind her desk. It occurred to Hermione that the empty canvas was Albus Dumbledore's, and she wondered at the veiled sentiment that she briefly saw in the older woman's expression as she stared at it. Then the sharp green eyes locked on hers, and she stifled the urge to squirm.

"How much of this has to do with Professor Snape?" McGonagall asked baldly.

"It's far more than just that," Hermione replied, trying to put the mental pieces into some sort of cohesive explanation. "It's my parents, and the fact that I never really took any time after the Battle... I didn't expect to live through any of that... and now," she shrugged, feeling like she was doing a poor job of conveying the mess inside. "I can't plan, or study... or do all those things that make me, me, because I don't know who I am any more, or even what I want."

During her speech, the Headmistress' face began to look increasingly pinched; by the time that Hermione had stumbled to a halt, the woman appeared rather unhappy as well.

"I should not have had you work with Professor Snape," she finally murmured. "But at the time, it seemed the best choice..."

"He'd be dead right now if we hadn't," Hermione stated firmly, working hard to not let her volcanic anger at the man peek through. "And we both owe him entirely too much to truly want that."

"But be that as it may..."

Hermione, feeling as if she was on firmer ground, interrupted again. "If I stayed, you'd eventually be forced to choose between the two of us, and that's the last thing I want."

"I'm not sure that things have gone all that bad," McGonagall said, mouth still pinched.

"I nearly blew up the classroom today, and came very close to hexing Professor Snape." Hermione stopped, reflecting on the calamitous events of the day. "Not to mention I failed my Charms exam..."

"You what?!" Now the Headmistress looked exceedingly appalled. "Filius mentioned no such thing when I spoke with him at supper..."

"He said I could retake it," Hermione remarked apologetically.

The Headmistress finally looked away, tapping her fingers lightly on the desk. Coming to a decision, she said, "Very well. When do you propose to leave?"

Hermione's relief was great, almost overwhelming. It wasn't as if the Headmistress could have really kept her here - she was of age, after all - but Hermione had not wanted to burn her bridges either.

"That depends." She stopped, feeling suddenly awkward. "Will I still be welcome to sit my exams come spring?"

"Of course you will, Miss Granger." The Headmistress gave her a stern glare. "You will always be welcome to come back."

She nodded, relieved that she could return if needed. "Then as soon as possible. I don't have much to pack, and if I could use your fireplace to floo Harry..." 


	10. The Rubicon

**27 October 1999**

It had taken several long hours to decontaminate the dungeon, and once he'd finished that, Snape had started right away on a variation of burn paste for Hermione. He had alternated between all-out fury and then horror throughout the afternoon, making the finer work of the burn paste more difficult than it should have been.

That she'd dare to not just question his authority in the classroom, but also publicly air her grievance - rightly or wrongly - against him greatly infuriated him. Then again, the injury to her arm had been rather... well, gruesome as potions accidents went, and made all the worse by that fact he'd not even noticed it until Draco had interrupted. He blamed himself for letting it get that bad; it wasn't like he didn't know how caustic that particular potion could be at that stage.

But by Merlin, he had wanted to shake the life out of her when they were fighting it out in the classroom. He had known what shortcut she had been trying to show Longbottom, and had been rather aghast that she had apparently forgotten that pickled sloth brains rendered the concoction much more unstable; when it had blown up, things had gone to hell in a hurry.

_"...where would you be without my help?"_

The question - as well as answer - rankled greatly. Because he would be rotting in a bed somewhere, or if he was lucky, dead, had it not been for her. But that was an extremely bitter truth, made all the worse by the fact that he had unrequited and very inappropriate feelings for her... on top of the life debt.

It was with those thoughts in mind that he let himself into the Hospital Ward; glancing at the rows of beds, he felt a spurt of panic when he failed to find Hermione safely ensconced in one of them. Abruptly, Poppy emerged from her office, carrying a set of clean sheets.

"Where is she?" he inquired, willing his emotions not to show. If she had been ill enough to be transferred to St. Mungo's, someone would have surely told him...

"With Minerva," the Healer started. And then: "Severus, you should wait..."

"Later," he bit off, and headed quickly towards Minerva's office.

* * *

The door sprang open just as he reached the top of the stairs, and for one second, he was blinded by the bright candlelight streaming in from the main room. Then a slight form stepped forward and partially blocked the wavering illumination; as his sight came back into focus, he saw that it was Hermione.

His heart gave an almighty lurch, and then just altogether stopped.

They both froze, the normal difference in their heights suddenly negated by the stairs. Positioned evenly as they were, he found himself looking her straight in the eyes; her countenance was a little grim, and before she cleared her expression, he saw an echo of his own bitterness staring back him.

The odd play of light on her face, along with the poorly hidden hints of strain, called forth his dim memories of that night in the Shrieking Shack; like a ghost, he could suddenly feel the faint fingers of her magic upon him, and the life debt, always hanging above his head like the Sword of Damocles, gave a painful twinge.

Gazing at her - battered and worn, but not beaten, and even lovelier for it - Snape wanted nothing more than to apologize, make things right between them. He simply wanted... her, whether it be fair or foul; he was so bloody tired of living a half-life...

Snape opened his mouth to apologize when she pre-empted him. "I need to get down the staircase."

And just like that, his heart restarted. Reality returned. Without a word, he moved aside so she could pass. She slipped past him without another word, leaving only the vague scent of jasmine and healing paste behind.

Gazing blankly at the top of the staircase where she had been standing, Snape was startled when Minerva appeared.

She watched him for a measuring moment, then spoke. "Come up and close the door."

* * *

Packing proved to be a rather easy task; she had never gotten around to unpacking her trunk in the first place. Still, she wanted to make sure that she was leaving nothing behind in her haste to meet Harry at the gates. Hermione had just bent to check under the bed one last time when a flicker of movement from the doorway caught her eye; spinning, she turned towards the motion, wand drawn.

It was Professor Snape.

He didn't appear angry, just... hollow, and she was struck by what an odd observation that was.

Without meaning to, she took one step forward, then another, until she was standing in the doorway opposite him. She heard a strange rushing in her ears, realizing only after she'd wiped the sweat from her palms on her robe that it was her heart pounding.

"You're leaving." He intoned the words precisely, but they still came out halfway between a statement and a question.

"Yes," she confirmed. Tried to slow the frantic beating of her pulse.

"Stay."

She looked away as the impact of his softly spoken plea hit her; through a narrowed field of vision, she saw his hand, digits as pale as newly hewn marble, gripping the still of the doorway hard enough that she was surprised to not see cracks appear in the wooden frame.

 _Why did he have to come here..._ she thought amid a rising tide of hysteria. _My mind is made up. I am done with Hogwarts. Done with him..._ Out of the night, Madame Pomfrey's words came to her again: "...a fine line between love and hate."

She met his gaze again, determined to not act the ninny. It was a mistake. For the first time, she noticed the lush curve of his bottom lip; inhaling deeply to rid herself of that sensual thought, she became aware of the smell of him, a mixture of potions, with an underlying aesthesis of man and starched linen.

"Why should I stay here?" she scoffed, the first flickers of anger, of fear, rousing in her.

"Because you've never quit anything for as long as I've known you."

"Not good enough." Her hands suddenly tingled with urge to touch- or maybe slap- him, and Hermione could feel the start of a flush blooming on her cheeks and neck. "Why do you care whether I stay or not?"

"You think I don't care?" He spat the words, his black eyes flashing with a heat that she had never seen before.

"No, I don't," she retorted. "Because if you cared so bloody much, why do you treat me so horribly?!"

"Why?" he gave a bitter chuckle, eyes focusing on something she couldn't see.

"Why?" she repeated, drawing his attention back to her.

"This is why," he said with a snarl, and then pulled her towards him.

His lips were on hers before she could think to protest; demanding and hungry, they nevertheless coaxed her into meeting him halfway. The hot exhalation of his breath on hers prompted her to part her own lips, allowing him greater freedom. He gave another low growl - or was it a moan? - as she opened to him, and she was lost in a flood of lust.

For the first time in months, she felt alive.

Hands clutching at the front of his robes, she pulled herself into the scorching circle of his arms. He took her mouth in another fiery kiss, one hand at her back pressing her closer, the other cupping her face almost gently. His tongue sought hers, and she revelled in the potent taste of him. She could feel the need coming off him in waves, a desperate need for her, and he shuddered as she ran an experimental hand down his lean flank.

Dimly, she became aware that they were shifting away from the open doorway; she arched her body willingly into his when he scooped her up and stumbled towards her four-poster bed. Then they were falling, legs intertwining as they hit the mattress.

It was she who groaned as his solid weight met her hips; unable to control herself, she rocked into the hardness of his growing erection. He exhaled sharply, head falling back and eyes drifting shut. The sight of him, unravelling before her very eyes, was like a torch to oil. In all her previous fumblings, she had never been driven to such desire. Ron... Ron had been oblivious to everything but his own pleasure, and she been mostly unaware or uncertain under the tutelage of Viktor's tame kissing.

_But Snape..._

That thought seemed to reverberate between them. His eyes, black as night, locked onto hers. For once he hid nothing from her; she could see his desire, and a longing that went bone-deep. Her own heart gave a lurch at that naked expression, and all she wanted in that moment was to be the focus of that attention; be fiercely wanted, and want that much in return.

"Touch me," she gasped. "Please..."

He went still for a painfully long second, and then attacked her. His hands - caressing, teasing, cupping - were everywhere, and he dragged the moist heat of his mouth down the column of her throat, licking and nipping as he went.

She moaned again, a shockingly loud sound in the midnight quiet of the room, and that seemed to push him into a further frenzy of desire. She could felt the rapid beat of his heart where they pressed together, see his heaving sides. Abruptly, she wanted to feel more than just linen and wool; she wanted his bare flesh on hers.

He apparently shared the same notion, for his nimble hands had undone her robe and were flying up the buttons of her uniform shirt. With a muffled pop, he rent the remainder of it open, and Hermione experienced the sudden wash of cold air on her chest. Reflexively, she brought her hands up, but he caught them before she could make anything more than a token attempt to cover herself.

She was not busty; she never had been, and the stressors of the last several years had kept her rather slimmer than she wished. Looking up at the man sprawled on one elbow above her, she could see the white expanse of her own chest contrasting vividly with the absolute onyx of his robe, and a wave of self-consciousness overwhelmed her.

Hermione stilled, and he stopped as well after a moment, tearing his regard from her modestly clad breasts to her upturned face. His expression seemed to soften, and he touched the flat of her stomach, gently, almost reverently. She shivered at the slow swipe of his thumb along the top of her jeans.

Hand moving upward again, he cupped her right breast, then her left. "You are so lovely," he breathed, before his head dipped into the valley between the subtle curves.

The rasp of his tongue in concert with the caressing pressure of his large nose was at first startling, and then maddening; he seemed to be deliberately avoiding the areas where she most wanted his mouth. Her bra had somehow come undone, but she was beyond caring. Without meaning to, one of her hands came and wound its way through the dark lengths of his hair, positioning him over her aching nipple; he chuckled darkly, eyes meeting hers for in brief flash of humour.

"There are certain advantages to being bossy..." he rasped, and then eagerly bent to his task.

A long, wool-covered leg insinuated itself between hers, and Hermione realized that she was once again rocking against him, the hard knot of desire twisting tighter and tighter in her belly. Arching further into his questing mouth, she groaned again, and he echoed her sound of abandon with one of his own. Avid mouth sliding to her other nipple, his tongue circled the silken peach point, then laved it with scrupulous care. He cupped her breasts high in his hands, greedily devouring them as if she were his last meal.

"Severus..." she panted, using his given name for the first time.

She felt his hands tighten on her, and then he settled into a primal rhythm, kissing, stroking and cupping her until she was left with the narrowest shreds of coherent reasoning. The masculine weight of his long body lying over her was delicious, and she wanted more; wanted him to press harder into her flesh, wanted...

The rhythm of teeth and lips and hands increased as Hermione grew swollen and wet. His prominent erection against her hip wasn't a threat, but rather a promise, and she pulled at him, trying to get him closer. He matched the pattern of his mouth with her thrusts, skilfully bring her closer to the edge. Hermione felt herself start to fly apart, and he suddenly nipped at her breast, hard.

A tremulous noise left her, transforming into a lusty moan as an intense climax started at her core, and then streaked outward. She shivered, crushing herself against his bulk in grateful relief. His dark head came up, capturing her mouth with his as ripples of pleasure rebounded within her. Arching one last time, she gave in and let herself fly free.

* * *

The sound of their laboured breathing was slow to diminish, and it was the inexorable intrusion of the damp chill of the Scottish night that finally brought Hermione back into focus.

When she finally opened her eyes, it was to find him staring at the Hogwarts crest on the pocket of her open blouse; the reality of what they had done - they were professor and student, regardless of any wider situation - struck her with a forceful double-helping of guilt and consternation.

His eyes - framed by surprising thick lashes - met hers, and she found his countenance once again unreadable. He didn't pull back, however; one long-fingered hand came up and brushed the curls from her face.

"Stay," he repeated, as if their previous conversation hadn't been interrupted by heated... snogging.

She stared at him, at a loss. Finally, she too repeated her question. "Why?"

"You belong here."

"But why do you want me to stay?" she persisted.

He did shift away from her then, and as he twisted, she became aware that while she might have found her release, he had not. Still, she said nothing, waiting for him to finally articulate his needs.

"Granger, do I really need to enunciate the myriad reasons why you should stay at Hogwarts?"

His words could not have been more chilling had they been delivered in a bucket of ice water. _He can't even use my proper name_ , she thought with anguish. _And it's 'why you should stay at Hogwarts', not 'why I want you to stay'. If he can't even voice what he wants right now - with the physical proof of it being bloody hard to ignore - what's going to happen later?_

She looked at him; all dark hair, pale skin, and unsettling gaze, and knew that she couldn't fix this problem - not for him, and probably not with him, either. It occurred to her then that they had left the door wide open, and while she had a private room, she was still housed on the same floor as the entrance to the Gryffindor tower. Her arm, still wrapped in bandages, began an angry throb, and the events of the day began to trickle back in.

"Stay," he said one last time, picking up on her unspoken answer before she could voice it.

"And then what?" Hermione finally responded. "Pretend that... that didn't just happen? Or go back and do it again every time we have a row? What do you want from me, Severus Snape?"

He said nothing to her challenge, face hardening incrementally. _It would be a train wreck_ , she thought miserably. _An absolute, utter, train wreck_.

Hermione bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry. "No."

Snape rose from swiftly from her bed; his looming presence made her want to cover herself, but resolutely, she forced herself to stay still and not reach for her shirt. Fixing his robes methodically - for she'd only gotten about half his buttons undone - he paused, fingering something in his pocket. Silently, he pulled it out and placed it on the bedside table. Not bothering to look at her again, he swept to the open door and strode out.

Hermione glanced at the round container uncomprehendingly, and then back to the empty door; sitting up she picked up the glass jar, still warmed from his heat, and opened it. A familiar smell wafted up. Burn paste, mixed with extra aloe and chamomile.

 _Well,_ she thought as tears started to run down her face, _I don't know if it's an apology or payment, but at least this will come in handy._

* * *

Ten minutes later, she was sprinting through the low-lying fog, headed for the main gate. Stumbling, she finally made it, only stopping herself from hitting the wrought iron by throwing her hands up; Harry, standing on the other side, looked at her with mounting concern.

Whispering the charm to open the gate, Hermione slide through. Harry pulled her close, taking in the wild state of her hair, puffy lips and the tears still running from her eyes.

"Hermione, what happened?" he asked softly, menace entering his tone.

The words spilled forth uncontrollably. "He kissed me..."

Rage lit up Harry's face, and started for the gate. She caught his arm before he could get trapped by the wards. "Harry, no..." She started sobbing. "I kissed him back..."

He stared at the ground, the moonlight reflecting off his glasses in such a way as to make his expression undecipherable. Finally, he gave a little sigh - of what, she couldn't tell - and placed a warm arm around her shaking shoulders. Wordlessly, he Apparated them back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... yes? No? Comments are gladly welcome.


	11. From the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the delightful comments on the last chapter- it's fantastic to see how people feel about what happened!

**Chapter 11**

**27 May 2000**

He and Minerva stood at the door of the Great Hall as the students filed in to take their N.E.W.T.s. His eyes swept over the nervous crowd, seeking a familiar curly-haired figure; in his peripheral vision, he saw Minerva performing the same action.

As the mostly silent students sat, he tried not to give in to the rolling sensation of doom that had taken root. _She's not coming,_ he thought a little desperately. Pride had kept him silent for almost two months, then he'd finally broken down and written to her. The owl - Hogwarts' most reliable - had come back almost a week later, unable to deliver his missive.

Minerva glanced at him, easily picking up on his tension. "She'll be here," he said to her, the words sounding weak to even his own ears. "When has she ever missed an exam?"

* * *

Six hours later, the first day of testing had been completed, sans one exceptional student.

"It's possible that she took them in London," Minerva murmured. "Quite a few of the people from her year did..."

Unable to contain his frustration any longer, Snape slammed the door to the Great Hall with more force than necessary. Several of the remaining students jumped, and made for the exit as soon as they saw his thunderous expression.

"Go," the older woman ordered, not unkindly. "Go find out if she took it elsewhere."

He gave her a grateful nod, and spun towards the gate without further ado.

* * *

"I'm sorry sir, but there are no records of a Hermione Jean Granger taking N.E.W.T.s anywhere in the UK, or at any of the twenty-one Commonwealth Testing Centres abroad," the Ministry woman babbled, fear making her words jumble together into an almost incomprehensible mess.

Resisting the urge to physically lash out again, he settled for silence and made for the lift. As the door opened, a new thought occurred to him: Potter would know where she was, and Potter worked in this very same building.

He entered the Auror's Office in full billow, his dramatic entrance causing the room to grind to an immediate halt. At a corner desk, he saw the Boy Wonder stop working and glance up; even from a good distance, he saw the Potter's face go tight.

Potter kept his cool, however, and rather than charging forward, carefully placed the cap of his biro back on and stood, taking the extra time to push his chair in. Even amidst his rage, Snape noted that the boy - man, really - had grown in both height and weight since the last time he had seen him. No longer was Potter a scrawny, weedy youth; instead, he looked every bit the part of an Auror.

As Potter walked towards him, Snape registered another change. There was no hesitation or fear in his gaze. Indeed, for the first time ever, Potter's emotions weren't leaking out for everyone to see; moreover, his gait had changed into the easy glide of someone who was a predator, and had no qualms about advertising that fact.

Stopping several metres from him, Snape felt the ripple of non-verbal magic roll over him. His temper spiked further when he realized that Potter had once again used his own spell against him. The _Muffliato_ blurred the sounds from the hallway into a dull drone, but Potter's voice was crystal clear.

"What do you want?"

Snape fought to master his own emotions; it would not do to have the boy outperform him in that aspect. At length, he finally said, "It has come to our attention that Hermione Granger has yet to take her N.E.W.T.s."

Potter smiled mockingly. "The Ministry of Magic, in all of its infinite wisdom, has decided to award Hermione her N.E.W.T.s without her having to sit for the exams. Her scores will be announced along with the others."

His hands reflexively tightened around his wand. _What I wouldn't give to be able to wipe that asinine smile off his face..._ "Where is she?

"Hermione's whereabouts are none of your business, Professor Snape." Potter abruptly stepped forward, the uncompromising, unforgiving and knowing glint of his green eyes rendering him more like Lily than he could ever remember. The two Auror goons behind Potter stepped up as well, flanking him. "Be grateful that you chose to ask me that question in public, because had you not, you and I would be having a very different sort of conversation."

"So eager to abuse your powers, Potter? I see very little has changed."

Potter's mouth curved again, displaying a row of uncommonly straight, white teeth. "No, I'm not. But with a sterling character like yours, I barely have to work in order to dig something up, do I?"

Snape's neck prickled as he registered the growing crowd at his back.

Potter spoke again. "Get out, Snape, because next time I see you - McGonagall's influence or no - I will remand you into Ministry custody."

* * *

Alcohol did not quiet the mocking voices in his head; if anything they only seemed to have reached Greek chorus levels.

Staggering to the gate, Snape sank down on his knees, utterly unable to form the words that would let him in. As the moisture from the damp grass seeped into the knees of his trousers, he heard the clink of the gate's archway opening.

Minerva slipped out and proffered a hand up. He regarded it with confusion.

"You know..." he slurred, reaching up and missing her hand by a good distance. "...Albus never met me at the gates, no matter how matter how badly I was hurt." He tried again to catch her hand again, with only limited success. "It didn't matter if it wasn't my fault, I was responsible for dragging my sorry carcass back in the Castle."

Minerva grunted as she hauled him upright. "But you always meet me back, even when I've..." he paused, fighting the urge to burp. "...when I've been an utter idiot, and an arse..."

"I'm not Albus," the woman said tiredly. "If I would have known half the things he planned...well, it's too late now, and meeting you here is the best I can do."

She ushered him in, her hand warm in his.

They had just made it to the greenhouses when he took a good tumble; she barely got a cushioning charm up in time to prevent him from getting seriously hurt. Snape sat on the ground for an endless moment, feeling completely sick.

"She didn't take them anywhere," he finally muttered. "She accepted the Ministry exemption."

"You have feelings for her," Minerva stated softly.

Snape only nodded, misery incarnate. _I am so tired,_ he thought. _So tired of hiding everything._

"Oh, Severus," she said, and then brushed the lank mass of hair away from his face gently. "I am terribly sorry… I didn't realize until after…" Minerva murmured, voice unsteady. "That was why you wouldn't take her on as an assistant, wasn't it?"

"I had some morals left," he snarled, his bitterness abruptly roused anew.

"And I managed to strip you of even that, didn't I?" the woman responded, sounding as sick as he felt.

He looked up at her then, and saw something in the moonlight that he'd never seen on Albus' face: genuine remorse. And just like that, his remaining anger at the older woman disappeared. She had been used just as badly as he had been, albeit in an entirely different way. He had always known that Albus viewed him as little more than a tool; he could not imagine how crushing it had to have been for her to realize that she too had duped and used by the man who had been her closest friend for the better part of forty years.

"Minerva… your actions might have set the stage, but I assure you, it was I that played the part." He spoke carefully, trying inject his words with comfort. With forgiveness. He couldn't be the only one tired of being alone, or being angry.

"Did she return your feelings?" she finally asked, words barely audible.

"It doesn't matter."

Minerva stepped forward and grasped his chin in her hand. Tipping his head up, she spoke again. "It matters… it matters a great deal, Severus."

Lightly, he removed her hand from his face, but did not release it. "No. She didn't come back. That's what matters."

For a moment, it appeared that she was going to cry, but she caught herself at the last instant. "Be that as it may, you can't go on like this. You have to... talk to someone. Maybe not one of us, but someone." Her hand gave his a squeeze. "To let yourself fall apart, after all that... well, it would be a waste."

The moon gilded the early summer landscape in to precise blacks and whites; in the distance, he could hear the insistent croak of frogs.

"I know." Slowly, he pushed himself off the ground and accepted her steady arm for the rest of the journey back to the Castle. "I know."

* * *

**17 September 2000**

**Alexandria, Egypt**

Hermione had been minding her own business when she'd heard the scream coming from several stacks down. Dropping the pile of books in her arms, she'd drawn her wand and legged it.

The ensuing fight had been rather quick and quite brutal. She had a bloody nose, and the start of an epic shiner. The thing - whatever the hell it was - lay dead at her feet, silvery pincers upturned towards the lotus-motif ceiling.

A slender, elderly Egyptian gentlemen wearing a double-breasted suit and a fez approached, wand drawn. With a raised eyebrow, he took in the scene before him. A short flick of his wand had all of the scattered books flying back to their places on the shelves.

"My name," he intoned gracefully, accent pulling from several different languages, "is Hisham Abd-Alkitab. I am the Chief Librarian of the Great Library of Alexandria."

Hermione offered a polite, if hesitant hand. "Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you." She flushed, suddenly feeling like the almost school-girl that she was.

"Tell me, my dear, have you ever considered becoming a librarian?" he inquired, the non-sequitur said in tones that were supremely polite.

"I... no, I had not."

The man smiled at her genially. "Well, why don't you come into my office and have a cup of tea to discuss matters? You know, the only people who like tea any more than the Egyptians are the English, so we should get along just fine..."

* * *

**21 September 2000**

**Edinburgh, Scotland**

"And what the fuck would you know about it, anyway? You, who has learned so much of life by sitting in this office, listening to horrid little people whinge about their horrid little problems…" Snape sneered down at the psychiatrist, contemptuous gaze sweeping over the placid perfection of the man's office. He took a perverse delight in seeing ire darken features of the man sitting across from him; that he could wind up a Muggle psychiatrist- someone whose bloody job it was to stay calm and collected- fed the feral knot of satisfaction in his belly.

Dr. Hamish Matthews, MRCPsych, CCST, took a sharp breath in, and deliberately looked away for a count of ten. When the man met his eyes again, he noted that the anger had only been banked, not extinguished. _Good,_ he thought spitefully _. Let's see what kind of advice he can dole out with that high horse shoved up his arse…_

The man leaned across the desk and spoke in a composed, if cutting tone. "Mr. Snape, I am a homosexual, as well as a squib. I come from a very traditional Pureblood family, and currently reside in a country that up until quite recently prosecuted people of my ilk for what they did in the privacy of their own bedrooms. I have drunk from many a bitter cup, I assure you."

Matthews tilted his head, a calculating expression clear on his face. "But you are not here because of my horrid little problems, are you? You are here because of yours."

Snape bit back a retort; he was here only because Minerva had badgered him into it. Why she thought talking to a perfect stranger about his life- his thoughts!- would help matters, he did not know. This was the last of three sessions, and he was looking forward to informing her that he would not be returning.

"Choosing to stay silent, are we? Good, then you can just listen for awhile." Matthews leaned back in his chair, the leather of it softly creaking. "Think on this, Mr. Snape. Do you want to remain the same angry, hostile, and spiteful man for the rest of your life? How is that working out for you?"

A vision of Hermione, half-naked and thoroughly tumbled upon her bed filled his mind… _"_ _But why do you want me to stay?"_

Snape blinked, the psychiatrist's oak panelled desk suddenly coming back into focus. The odious man was still speaking. "…I would wager, however, that you don't want that. So that begs the question, what do you want? Who do you want to be?"

Matthews' bright blue eyes were oddly compelling. "Magic or no, you can't change past, and you and I both know that there is no way to reliably predict the future. For that matter, you cannot control the actions of those around you, nor their thoughts. The only thing that you have any power over is your own behaviour and actions. That is the one area you can change; and in doing so, you can remake yourself."

With another one of those calculating stares, Matthews stopped speaking and let the notion hang in the air. His next words were softer. "Given that you are only a surly, malcontented bastard, and not in fact a raging lunatic speaks to the sheer resiliency and power of your mind. It won't be easy, or even sudden, but you can change. So I'll ask you again, Severus Snape. Who do you want to be?"

* * *

**15 March 2005**

**London, England**

Hermione glided up to the black-haired man who sat sipping a scotch at the bar. Skimming a hand low on his back, she murmured, "Can I buy you another drink, handsome?"

The man turned and looked down at her, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. "Only if you promise to not tell my wife. She's a real harpy when she gets mad."

Hermione leaned forward and fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. "Well, it seems like we might have a problem… I promised her that I'd come around for supper at six."

A wide grin split Harry's face, and swinging off the barstool, he engulfed Hermione in a tight embrace.

"Surprise…" she said, voice muffled by his shoulder. Pulling back a bit, Hermione gave him a bit of glare. "Wait until I tell Ginny that you called her a harpy."

"She plays for the Holyhead Harpies. Ergo, she is by definition, a harpy."

Hermione snorted. "Yeah, I'd like to see you say that one to her face."

Harry laughed. "No thanks, I prefer my bollocks in situ and unharmed. Blimey, Hermione… I'm not complaining, mind, but what on earth are you doing in London?" he asked as they both took seats.

Catching the bartender's attention, Hermione ordered a drink. "I had a job interview today with the British Library."

"You're thinking about coming back to England," Harry said, stunned.

A scotch on the rocks was set in front of her, and Hermione took a cautious sip before she went on. "I sat the exam two weeks ago, but I didn't want to say anything until I was sure that I would be offered an interview. It's something that I've been considering for awhile."

Understanding flickered through Harry's emerald eyes. "You've been thinking about it since our last trip to Australia, I'd wager to guess."

It had taken five years of searching, but Hermione had finally found an obscure Japanese potion that she had thought would restore her parents' sentimental connections to their memories. Always her emotional bulwark, Harry had gone with her to explain the possibilities to them.

"Monica," said the man who had once been her father, "and I are not broken, nor do we require fixing."

That conversation had been the nail in coffin, so to speak, of her relationship with her parents. She had done everything in her power to apologize, and been firmly rebuffed at every turn; while they might someday forgive her, she could not continue to wait for that day to happen. Hermione had to move on. Monica and Wendell Wilkins were alive, and when she wasn't in their lives, were presumably happy. It would have to be enough- and for the most part, it was.

"Australia certainly prompted the notion," she explained. "But it's a more than that. I'm at place in my career that I need to decide where I'm going to be for the next five to ten years. I've been offered my own section at the Great Library of Alexandria."

"Congratulations," Harry said warmly, saluting her with his drink.

"Thanks." She smiled back at him. "I've been there for almost five years, and it's come time to make a choice- either I settle there for good, or I come back here."

"Do you have a preference?" Harry asked, head tilting. 

"Here, I think. Professionally, both would be fabulous opportunities, but personally? Moving back to England won't be without it's difficulties, but I would rather be closer to you guys. After all, it's rather hard to spoil my godson living in Egypt."

"There is that," Harry mused, staring at his drink for several long moments. Making his mind up about something, he pulled several bills from his wallet and tossed them on the bar. "Come on, I want to show you something."

Hermione took a last sip of her drink. "Is this something that will make Ginny mad?" she teased.

He rolled his eyes. "Not for that reason, woman. Now, come on…"

* * *

A sweeping flash of silver, and the graceful leap of a doe in a dark office; Albus Dumbledore's face, gaunt and sickly. "After all this time?"

And then there was Snape, face full of fury and horror. "Always."

* * *

Hermione stumbled as she fell out of the pensive; were it not for Harry's solid presence next to her, she would have hit the ground face first.

"He loved your Mum?" she said, completely gobsmacked. "Severus Snape was in love with your Mum?"

Harry's expression was grim. "Yes. That's why he changed sides and always protected me. It had nothing to do with the life debt he owed my Father."

Numbly, Hermione sunk down onto chair and began to process what Harry had shown her.

As a child, she had thought of Professor Snape a bit like the wizarding world's version of Sherlock Holmes- brilliant, temperamental, and utterly untouched by matters of love or softer sentiment. After working with him, her notion of him had shifted; no longer could she view him as anything resembling the asexual. Obsessive, endowed with more than a normal person's share of neuroses, certainly, but ultimately possessing great passion when he chose to. Then they'd had their final conversation, and he had asked her to stay... and she had become rather well acquainted with just how much ardour the man was capable of.

After that incident, it was clear that he had… well, feelings of some sort for her, but she'd doubted his capacity for love; his motives, whether it be the reasons that led to him throwing in with Dumbledore or the more prosaic day-to-day choices had remained frustratingly opaque. But with Harry's revelation, great deal of his actions suddenly made sense. _Was that part of the reason why he couldn't even say that he wanted me?_

"Why didn't you tell me back then?" she finally asked, aghast.

"Because it wasn't my secret to share," he replied matter of factly. "He specifically asked Dumbledore to keep quiet on it, and I can't imagine that he'd want it known now. I had to tell McGonagall- she's the one that helped me figure out what parts of the memories to give to the Wizengamot- but other than her and Ginny, no one else knows."

"So why are you showing these to me now?"

He went silent at her question, and stared at her in the detached, omniscient manner that never failed to run chills up her spine. She was forcefully reminded that for all intents and purposes, Harry James Potter had died during the Final Battle; that he had seen beyond the veil and been marked by it.

Picking up on her discomfort, he abruptly thawed, and leaning forward, took her cold hands into his warm ones.

"I'm telling you because I think that you need to know." Harry stopped, clearly a bit hesitant to carry on. "It's just that... Hermione, you're my best mate, and you know that I love you." His smile, so earnest and genuine, was like the comforting balm of summer sunshine. "You are my rock, and Ginny is my love and my future. What her and I have..." Harry squeezed her hands again, "It's so wonderful, and I want you to find that someday."

Hermione suddenly didn't like where the conversation was heading. "What does all that have to do with showing me Snape's memories?"

Again, that expression returned to Harry's emerald eyes. "Because I'm worried that whatever that... thing was between you and him is what's keeping you from finding someone and being happy."

"Harry!" she started to exclaim, before he put a hand up to forestall the rest of her comment.

"I just wanted you to know that he wasn't... incapable of love. He..." Harry trailed off, looking a trifle pale. "What that was, what happened... that was a horribly twisted, sick version of what it should have been. There is nothing wrong with you, don't you see?"

She laughed a little; it was that or start to cry. "So if I provide you with a list of my lovers, will you relax?"

He didn't smile at her facetious retort. "Only if you can tell me that you were actually in love with any of them."

She froze, his question hitting entirely too close to a truth that she didn't even like to admit to herself. Hermione could not honestly say that she had loved any of her partners. She cared deeply, but that was the extent of it, and her relationships all petered out after six months or so.

"Listen, Hermione… I'm not defending him- believe me, I'm not- but I just think you ought to know more of the story. There was a lot going on for both of you, and if you are thinking about coming back, you should be prepared to deal with some of those… issues again."

"I wasn't in love with him," she said, and Harry made a snort of disbelief. "I wasn't. There was something there, I won't deny that much. But it's like you said, things were too much of a mess…"

"If you say so," Harry said, not appearing to buy her response.

"Have you seen him… since everything?" Hermione finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"No. He stays up at Hogwarts. Neville says he's alright to work with- he apologized a couple of years ago, I guess- but I haven't heard much beyond the normal school gossip."

The sound of footsteps and the doorknob rattling jolted both of them out of their seats; Ginny came sweeping in, holding a crying James, as well as a letter.

"Oi, Auror boy," she said, leaning down to give Harry a kiss. "Take your screaming banshee of a son off my hands."

Obligingly, Harry took the boy, whose cries started fade almost immediately. Ginny thrust the envelope at Hermione. "This came for you. The owl just about knocked me over trying to deliver the ruddy thing."

Hermione glanced down at it, seeing the large blue logo of the British Library. "Oh, god. That's the results for the position. You open it, Ginny…"

Ginny rolled her eyes, but complied with a smile. Ripping the envelope open, she withdrew a thick piece of creamy vellum. Her eyes scanned the first few lines, and then she began to read. "The British Library is pleased to offer you a position as Second Assistant Librarian…"


	12. A War Council With Scones

**14 June 2009**

Severus couldn't sleep, and finally gave up any hope of it sometime around four in the morning. Slipping into a pair slacks and a woollen jumper, he went down the staff stairs and made for the back exit.

Whereas walking through the Castle had been a study in rolling, black darkness and silent corridors, the grounds were a far more nebulous space. A half moon, defused under a blanket of clouds, painted world in soft shades of grey. The air was ripe with moisture, and a thick fog had carpeted both the earth and lake; it wasn't until he felt the crunch of pebbles under his feet that it became clear that he'd reached the gently banked shoreline.

With a quick flick, he transformed a stone into a low-slung beach chair and cautiously sat, staring into nothingness in front of him. There were only suggestions of sound all around him- the lap of water on the shore, random notes of night birds singing- and lack of definition in the landscape slowly calmed the upheaval in him.

He was scared.

It was easy, sitting in this liminal nothingness, to admit that. First and foremost, he was scared that they'd not be able to fix what had gone wrong in the library. He was afraid for Noémi; he sincerely liked the woman and it gutted him to think that she would be added to the rolls of Hogwarts dead. Minerva's continuing decline- and the changes that it would bring about- also gnawed at him…

And then there was Hermione.

The last few days had been a private hell, not only for the obvious reasons, but for the fact that nine years hadn't dulled his feelings for her at all. Working with her had been an exercise in self-discipline. Not to control his temper, thankfully, but rather to manage his suddenly raging libido and an overriding wish to beg for her forgiveness.

Surprisingly, there had been not much in the way of fireworks or temper between them, with the exception of their original meeting in her office and the almost-kiss in the library. Hermione had been professional and personable, but likewise, had let very little of her private life slip free. During supper, both Poppy and Minerva had done some not-so-discrete prying, trying to suss out if she was attached to anyone and she'd deftly avoided all questions.

He had no real idea where he stood with her, and indeed, if he had any sort of chance of anything- friendship or otherwise- with her. And that was the hell of it, because he thought- prayed, really- that he could appropriately deal with matters either way. He just wanted to know if there was… hope.

_And rather than just asking her, dolt, you have chosen to wallow in uncertainty. Given the way that you have treated her, any bridges will have to be built by you; you cannot wait for her to make the first- or last- move._

While he had thought of her often, Severus had not spent the intervening years pining after her as he'd done Lily. Monastic atonement would serve no other purpose than to further isolate and embitter him; and so he'd fashioned a life for himself that was far better than it ought have been… certainly far better than he'd deserved.

Severus took a deep breath in, only then noticing the faintest tinge of peach that was dusting the horizon.

 _So_ , said a mocking voice- one that sounded rather like Hamish Mathews- _what are the factors you can control?_

_Be the man you want to be, and be courageous enough to actually speak to her of your feelings. No more assumptions, and no more holding back._

_When this done- by tonight, perhaps- you will talk with her. It may all go to hell, but you will have at least tried. Besides which, any more of this whiny, adolescence angst is liable to give you a bloody heart attack. You are entirely too old for this shite…_

Some of the stress in him relaxed at the decision. _Now that you've got your existential crisis over_ , said another voice- one that sounded far too much like Minerva for his comfort- _pull up your pants and deal with the issue at hand. Namely, the mess in the library…_

* * *

Hermione paced the length of her room, unable to quash the feelings of nervous anxiety that seemed to push at her from all angles. She knew that she should be working to calm herself, should be going over the mental preparations for the day's castings- but for once, she couldn't seem to summon the internal fortitude to do so.

Gazing out the window abstractly, she was startled to see a tall figure emerge from the mist coming off the lake. Stepping closer to the window, she squinted, trying to make out who it was. _Who would be up this early?_ she thought distractedly.

The person strode forward, one step closer, then two... and she saw that it was Snape.

 _Of course it would be him_. She gave a little sigh, wishing that she could blame the man for her inability to focus. But however many sins she could lay at his door, her current... discombobulation was due to her own mental idiosyncrasies, not any poor behaviour on his part. _Pity you cannot blame him for his good behaviour then,_ she thought wryly. _Had he played the part of the arse or dark dungeon master, this all might be a bit more academic.  
_

Pressing her hand against the cold glass, Hermione wondered at the sudden conflict that studded her emotions, wondered at why she was even considering waffling on her assessment of that man. As if sensing her perusal, Snape's easy stride slowed, and he turned his face upward, peering in the direction of her window. Hastily, Hermione jumped back, and then berated herself for her acting like the fool. _It's not as if gazing out the window is any crime, or that you were making googly eyes at him!  
_

 _Bollocks. This would be so much easier if I didn't fancy him..._ That was at the heart of things; she wanted to trust the man before her now, she wanted to disregard the little voice of doom and gloom in her head that recalled projects past, and coloured all of her present interactions with Snape, she wanted to... _Well, you want many things. A million galleons, for example, and you are just as likely to be gifted with that as you are any sort of functional relationship - romantic or otherwise - with Snape._

All of which put her in the current pickle she found herself. _How the hell do you put your faith and trust in someone else, when you can't even trust yourself?_

Hermione felt the hot sting of tears start. Angrily wiping at her eyes with her bathrobe, she grabbed her toiletries. _All you can do is function in the now. Enough whinging and wool-gathering. You've one task today: get the Hogwarts Library back into order..._

* * *

"Hermione, do you have any ideas as to why the wards collapsed in the first place?" Madame Pomfrey asked, but then went on in a nettled sort of voice before she could provide an answer. "I suppose after over fifty years living in this Castle, I should not be at all surprised by such events... but still, those things you two fought in the Library were quite disturbing. I don't understand how that could even happen..."

Hermione was sitting in the Head's office, along with Snape, Minerva, Filius, Pomona and Poppy; they were meeting to go over the agenda for the day before proceeding to the library. Minerva had dryly declared their gathering as a "…war council with scones".

"The how of it is relatively simple," Hermione answered. "When you create a magical object - say a book - you impart it with a bit of yourself, whether you mean to or not. Often times, you also imbue it with power - a charm against theft, or rot, for example - and thus grant it a rudimentary sentience. Wizards also deliberately bind free magic elementals into objects, either to stop the creature, or to use the creature's inherent power to strengthen whatever it is that they are creating. Much like children," and she smirked a little, recalling all the trouble that she and her friends had gotten themselves into, "if left unattended and unchecked, it leads to chaos. Moreover, the magic tends to feed off each other, and then loosen the enchantments that keep the bound elements in check. Once enough of the bindings have been broken, it results in the release of those delightfully archaic creatures."

"Delightful?" Snape drawled softly from his corner. "I think not."

Hermione ignored his pithy correction. "As to the first part of your question, no, I've yet to find an obvious reason why Mistress Morel's wardings failed. From what I can make out from the remnants, they were cast correctly, and rather strongly. It just seemed like they didn't quite... mesh with the greater Hogwarts protections, and that led to an improper build-up of magical energy." Hermione paused, thoughtful. "It's like she missed a step, but that's impossible, because the wards did take... I just don't know."

"So, essentially, our library been has been taken over by dark magic," Pomona interjected, fear colouring her words.

Before Hermione could form a response, Snape spoke up. "No, not precisely. Some of it is dark in origin, yes... but mostly, it's just old." He shrugged lightly. "That being said, magical practices have changed enough over the centuries that there really is not that much of line between 'dark' and 'old'. I suppose 'archaic' is a decent enough way of phrasing it."

"Why, thank you," Hermione said, allowing a patina of sarcasm to paint her words.

His gaze swung to hers. "I'm not calling into question your knowledge or expertise, Mistress Granger," he replied, apology implicit in his tone.

Hermione sighed, and put her teacup down. "No, I know you're not. I'm just a little on edge, that's all." She noticed that he appeared tired as well, and fleetingly wondered if he'd spent the majority of the night wrestling demons as she had. "To tell the truth, I've half a mind to call the Chief Librarian."

Snape leaned forward in his own chair, a new tension running through his lean frame. "Do you have good reason to think we might fail?"

"Nothing concrete, no." Hermione bit her lip. "But there is a subtle resistance that I don't like, and I've no idea what we'll face in the Restricted Section."

"I thought that the spells you placed yesterday were to render the entirety of the library safe?" Poppy asked, concern evident in both tone and face.

"And they should have... but the Restricted Section has a second set of wards and protections, and I can't even start to recast those until the main stacks are put safe."

"I would not have you risk yourself needlessly if there is assistance readily available," Snape stated, manner brooking no argument.

"I concur," Minerva added. "Hermione, I know your Chief Librarian well enough. Charlotte will see it as no bother to check in. Severus, why don't you show her to the floo in my sitting room?"

Snape rose wordlessly, and waited for her to stand before leading the way to the door that led to Minerva's chamber. Holding it open, he gestured for her to precede him.

"First door to the left," he murmured, his voice nothing but a low rumble against her skin in the dark hallway. She did as he bid, entering a comfortable, tartan-clad room that seemed the perfect external representation of the Headmistress. He cast a quick charm at the fireplace, and then paused.

"Mistress Granger," Hermione looked at up, seeing that he wasn't nearly as calm as she'd thought in the outer office. "I mean it. I'll not have you save the library at the cost of yourself." He had gone thin-lipped, and Hermione could the see the pulse in his throat beat rapidly, further betraying his agitation.

In response to his distress, some nameless emotion twisted in her, and she fought the urge to offer a reassurance that she didn't possess. "Hermione," she eventually said, at a loss to do anything else. "I would prefer it if you called me Hermione."

A familiar tension lit the air between them before he replied. "Likewise, I prefer Severus in private company."

She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything further.

"I'll leave you to it then," he said, and left the room.

When Hermione looked into the mirror above the mantel, she saw that her face had gone flushed, and her eyes sported a suspicious brightness. _Oh, bugger it all. Troubles on top of troubles..._

* * *

She re-entered the office with a visage altogether more grim.

"What did Charlotte say?" Minerva inquired, sipping at her tea.

"Nothing, unfortunately. Her daughter has gone into labour, and it's not going very well. I spoke with Daniel, the Second, but he can't leave either. He thinks that he could spare someone tomorrow, or the Chief might be free by then, but in the meantime, we are on our own."

"Can we wait?"

Hermione recalled the sensations that had accompanied the castings of previous day's trip into the library, and added to that the growing awareness of foreboding that she current felt. "No..." she shook her head, and spoke more firmly. "No, I think not. If we were simply dealing with the main collection, I think we could risk it, but the longer we allow the Restricted Section to go unchecked, the worse off we are going to be."

"Even by one day?" Poppy questioned.

"Yes. Even one day is significant."

"Can we provide any assistance by being there with you?" the Healer inquired further.

"No, it's too dangerous to have people who are not casting the wards present," Hermione said regretfully. "They tend to get either get sucked in as a power source, or basically Imperio'd into harming the casters. As Headmaster, Severus has to be there, and provides an essential bulwark into the wider protections; without his... blessing, I guess you can say, I would be unable to secure the library."

Minerva, who had been staring at the empty portrait of Albus Dumbledore during Poppy's question, spoke again. "Hermione, you have the advantage of two Heads of Hogwarts being available. Would it be beneficial to have myself there providing additional support?"

"Absolutely not!" Snape's voice rang out, and stopped the room cold.

The Headmistress traded glares with the Headmaster. "I may not have quite the strength that I once had, but I've lost none of the ability to do magic..."

"I do not call into question your magical ability, nor your skill, Minerva," Severus growled. "What I call into question is your heart's ability to withstand the pressure and stress... be reasonable, last Tuesday nearly killed you..."

"And I am not likewise allowed to put myself at risk for something I love?" the older woman shot back tightly.

"There are acceptable risks, and then there is sheer lunacy..."

"Severus..."

"No!" This time he bellowed at the woman, emotion thickening his words. "I had to sit here and listen _ad nauseam_ to Albus detail the reasons why killing him only made the best of sense; I'll not listen to that shite from you as well." Abruptly, he shot from the chair and strode over the window, turning his back to them all.

Looking at the obviously frail condition Minerva was in, Hermione felt inclined to agree with Snape, and grew a bit sick herself over the reminders of sacrifices made in the past by both the Heads.

"Oh, Severus," Minerva repeated again, but this time with a regretful sigh. Getting up laboriously from the settee, she approached the window, and placed a comforting hand on Severus' back. Leaning in, she started speaking to him, while a faint buzzing filled Hermione's ears. Realizing too late that she was witnessing a very personal discussion, she looked away, choosing instead to focus on the volumes in the bookshelf next to her.

Several minutes later, she heard Minerva clear her throat; turning, Hermione saw both Minerva and Snape re-approaching the sitting area. They were both blank-faced, and Hermione wasn't about to guess at the content of their conversation.

"We will proceed as planned," the Headmistress announced as if the interval had not happened. "Hermione, my dear, is there anything else we can do before you start?"

Hermione took a deep, cleansing breath in, and gazed at Severus for a long moment. "No. I'd like to go over some of the spells I'll be using with Severus just in case, but I think there's not anything to do other than just get on with it."

"Very well. We will leave you to it, then." The others in the room rose from their places and started for the door to the stairway.

As Filius reached the doorway, he stopped and turned around. "Don't forget that you've faced far worse!" he chirped rather cheerfully at Hermione.

From his chair, Snape gave a rusty laugh. "True enough. She had to work with me."

Minerva pursed her lips in mock-disproval. "Oh, come now, you weren't that bad..."

"Yes, I was," Snape said firmly, and at the same time that Hermione muttered, "Not as bad as Voldemort, perhaps..."

Everyone chuckled at that, and the tension in the room abated somewhat. Filius and Pomona went down the stairs, Poppy at their heels. Minerva lingered, however, and walked over to where Snape had resumed sitting. Leaning down, she brushed a gentle kiss onto his forehead. "For luck," she remarked. Cupping his face for a brief second, they shared a stare that was almost painful its intimacy. Hermione couldn't see Minerva's expression, and caught only a partial view of the fierce emotions playing across Snape's face before she glanced away.

With a quiet admonition to "...remember what I said," Minerva stepped back and turned her formidable regard on Hermione. "I do have every faith in the pair of you. Filius was correct: you have faced far worse and come out the better for it."

"Thank you," Hermione said, sudden emotion making speech difficult.

"None necessary," the older woman replied, and saying no more, left the room.

Severus met her gaze squarely. "Shall we go over the plan of attack one last time?"

* * *


	13. The Library

**_Chapter 13_ **

Hermione's knees felt a little wobbly as they approached the library. As if by mutual accord, they stopped just short of the wooden double doors. She gazed up at the solemn man at her side; seeking to reassure herself as much as him, she reached out and squeezed Severus' hand.

"We can do this," she avowed softly, not letting go.

A kaleidoscope of emotions crossed his face then, chief of which was sorrow. Still, he smiled at Hermione; an older and more tired version of the sweet, hope-filled smile that she'd seen when they'd successfully created the antivenin.

"Yes, we can," he returned steadily. Using their intertwined hands as a method to pull her closer, he leaned down and kissed her forehead as Minerva had done. "For luck, Hermione Jean Granger," he uttered, the fine hairs on the back of her neck and arms standing to attention as the spirit of his blessing washed over her.

At her back, she could feel the malevolent pulse of the collection, but she couldn't tear her eyes off him; he was so familiar - the ink-black hair and eyes, prominent nose and sharp cheeks - and yet the unfettered passion and warmth in his gaze was so... foreign. She saw him then not as the bitter and angry professor of her past, but much more like Harry- like her- as a survivor. As Minerva had said so long ago, a good man…

She found that she did not want to go into battle with so many matters unsaid between them. Making a split-second decision, she rose up on her tip-toes and said, "I forgive you, Severus Snape, and hope you will do the same for me."

Leaning in, she kissed him tenderly.

It took him a moment to react; for an awkward second his lips were quiescent under hers, and then he seemed to burst into full life beneath her. Severus murmured her name, his rich voice gone hoarse with desire and something... more. Pained, she thought with the small part of her that wasn't lost to the kiss. Pained, and all she could do was kiss him back and pray that it was enough.

He took full advantage, his tongue teasing and tempting, one hand sliding over her ribs before cupping a breast, leaving nothing but pure fire in its wake. She retaliated by nipping her way down his firm jawline, laving the web of scar tissue on his throat with particular attention and care.

He threw his head back and let out a full groan at her ministrations. "Hermione..." he said again, the vibration of his words strong under her lips. Hermione felt something vital within herself come awake at his unabashed pleasure; felt her magic crackle around them in lusty joy.

It was he that finally gentled their kiss and eventually pulled back far enough to let the cool air of the hallway slip between them. His forehead rested against hers, and for several moments, all Hermione could hear were the echoes of their breathing and her heart thudding loudly in her ears.

"Promise me," he whispered, "Promise me that when this is all over, we will have a chance to talk."

She swallowed, a mess of wonderful and ugly emotions hitting her. "Yes. We'll talk, Severus."

He gave her a last, chaste kiss before looking to the doors in front of them. "Shall we do this, then?"

A flutter of mordant humour surfaced. With a shadow of her normal cheekiness, Hermione intoned, "Ours not to reason why, ours is but to do and die."

"We are not going to die, Granger," he stated firmly, the corners of his mouth twisting upward as he caught her reference.

"If you say so, sir."

He shuddered. "Don't call me that unless you want me to turn you over my knee give you a good spanking."

Deliberately, she let her eyes sweep over him in a coy fashion. "As you wish... sir."

He laughed then, a full and lovely sound that made her grin in return. "I think that the usual custom here is to say something about you being the death of me, but at the moment, I highly doubt that as being a serious possibility." He unsheathed the silver sword at his side, and more formally said, "Shall we, Mistress Granger?"

"We shall, Headmaster Snape. We shall."

* * *

She resembled no one more than Joan of Arc, utterly magnificent in her determination, her faith lending her expression a particular sparkling quality; as she strode forth into the library, Snape was almost shocked that it did not then simply fold in the face of her indomitable will.

His lips - well, and several other parts of him - still tingled from the aftermath of her passionate kiss. He felt as if he'd been speared by a double-edged sword of hope and fear; hope for what might be, and deeply fearful for what might happen in this room.

_And the best way you can ensure that there is a future is to be on task and aware; waxing rhapsodic will do nothing but get the both of you killed... and quickly, at that._

With that thought, he wiped the smile from his lips and got to work opening the wards for her.

* * *

Four hours later they were both covered with sweat and a multitude of small bites; rather than the exotic and archaic beasts of the day before, the main collection seemed to be letting loose the most banal and annoying of pests. Boggarts. Hinkypunks. Redcaps. Snape had long ago exchanged the sword for his wand, and rather thought that having someone with a stronger affinity for household charms - say, Molly Weasley - would have done Hermione more good.

He felt her mentally shove another section of the stacks under the umbrella of her control, and tracing one of the warding runes onto the shelf, he duly incorporated it into the wider Hogwarts web. He had a momentary awareness of it before it sunk into obscurity. _Ahh, but Molly Weasley can't do that, now can she?_ he thought with a trace of smugness. Glancing back at Hermione, he noted that she appeared to be flagging ever so slightly.

Pulling out a charmed flask, he wrapped her hand around it, and said firmly, "Water. Drink." Nodding abstractly, and in the midst of taking control of another row, she nevertheless did as ordered. Her hand trembled as she did so, and she leaned lightly against him as he reached to take it back.

Wrapping a long arm around her waist, he pulled her into the lee of his body, and she relaxed gratefully into his embrace. Pressed together as they were, he could almost hear her thoughts as she set out quelling spell after quelling spell. He was amazed at her endurance; the amount of energy she'd expended was more than akin to a day-long battle than anything else.

He heard a dull crack, and then the sound of a multitude of flapping wings. Releasing Hermione, he kept a brief, if watchful eye on her lest she fall; seeing that she was steady on her feet, he swung around, trying to locate the source of all that sound. From his left, he saw a buzzing, angry, blue mass issue forth from a bookcase.

_Cornish Pixies?!_ he thought with mingled resignation and irritation. _Good lord, there must be at least a thousand of them... what is this, Third Year Defence Against the Dark Arts? At this point, I think I'd rather be facing any of the creatures from yesterday!_

* * *

Another two hours after that, they both felt the final set of wardings settle into place with an almost audible reverberation. Hermione sagged against him bonelessly and shut her eyes. Scooping her up, he moved a few metres to the left and perched on one of the polished wooden library ladders. Shifting her, so she was settled firmly over his lap, Snape rested his own head against the railing.

"Was that it, then?" he eventually asked, realizing only as he did so that his free hand was stroking her hair. He stopped, aware that he was likely crossing boundaries that he should not.

Amber eyes opened and focused blearily on him. "I... don't know." She sat up straighter but made no move to pull away. "You felt the Restricted Section fall into place, did you not?"

"Yes," he affirmed. "However, I'm sensing a 'but' in your statement."

"But," she nodded, "...something still feels out of place. The collection still seems... I don't know, anticipatory."

"And it's not supposed to?"

"No. Don't you remember what it felt like under Irma Pince? When you walked in the door, you could feel her iron control. I swear, there were some days that I worried that I was breathing too loud."

She rose from his lap slowly - reluctantly? - and proffered him a hand up. "Come on. Let's head to the Restricted Section. I want to try something..."

The warning scream of the Castle's protections gave him a half-second warning; snapping a shielding charm in front of the two of them, he had enough time to see her eyes go wide with alarm before they were hit with the magical equivalent of a blast furnace.

It was like being dipped in fire if fire had the added ability to painfully suck the magic from one's core out through the skin. He couldn't move, could hardly breathe, but dimly could feel Hermione frantically casting the subduing spell upon whatever it was attacking them. Then the protections that came along with being the Headmaster of Hogwarts settled around him, and he could once again focus on something more than pure pain.

Trying to ignore the omnipresent stink of something – them? - burning, he strengthened the shield around the two of them to no avail; nothing seemed to further lessen the effect of the unknown menace.

Then a sharp throb pierced in his chest, and he bent over double, gasping. For a fleeting second he was rendered utterly confused at the unexpected internal attack, until Severus realized that he was feeling the life debt he owed Hermione waver, then falter. Forcing his head up, he saw her suddenly flare with a golden light and then collapse to the floor.

Unbelieving, he felt her fall into the magical chasm that was the power reservoir of the Castle's wards; had a brief awareness of her fear and panic... and then there was nothing. She was gone.

Horror and anger and fear erupted from him, and it was enough to shake the very foundations of the Castle. Abruptly, he felt his power increase ten-fold, and then exponentially again. Snape could feel a familiar source of energy feeding him, the cool flavour of it like the wind running through the finest Scottish heather. It was enough to calm his temper and thought returned.

He recalled Hermione's instructions then. "If something happens, use the subduing spell. Throw everything you have at it; it should be enough to give us sufficient time to get out of there and regroup."

Sharply, he pulled on that new source of power, pulled on the Castle's wards, and put every fibre of his soul into the casting."FLECTERE AD CONSILIUM MEUM," he roared.

It resisted, and it seemed like events were unravelling at his feet. _NO,_ he thought, refusing to entertain any notions of failure. _THIS IS MY CASTLE, MY LIBRARY, AND MY WITCH. YOU WILL NOT TAKE THEM FROM ME, NOT THIS TIME!_

And then, like an inexorable tide, the power started to shift in his favour. He pushed, and then pushed harder again, the words of the spell and his own fervent desires combining to form a chant: FLECTERE AD CONSILIUM MEUM... MINE!... FLECTERE AD CONSILIUM MEUM... MINE!..

Then the power of the Restricted Section broke, like nothing more than dried kindling over his knee. The raving berserker in him gloried in that surrender, and he fought the urge to strike out and destroy the remnants he could feel sparking in the wards. But it was his library after all... His sight came back into focus then, and Hermione's defenceless form, crumpled on the floor, brought him the rest of the way back.

His head seemed full to bursting, and he scrambled to come up with the next step. _I have to find her_ , he thought. _She... her consciousness is in the wards, and I have to get her out..._ Brutally, and with no more planning than that thought, Snape shoved himself in the wards, trusting that his position as Headmaster would allow for extrication once he'd retrieved her.

If the previous sensations had been like fire, stepping into the magical chasm of the Castle's wards was like jumping into the deepest, coldest lake head first. Millions of bubbles seemed to be brushing up against him; then he realized that they weren't bubbles at all, but the individual components of the Castle, the lasting memories, and the echoes of all of the magical spells ever cast at Hogwarts.

Snape grabbed at them futilely, trying to figure out which one was Hermione, but it was impossible. He felt himself sinking, drowning, and there was no way out...

He heard Minerva's calm voice as if she were standing over his shoulder. "...remember what I said." _What,_ he thought frantically _. What had she told him?_

Her age-worn and gentle hand on his back; the love implicit in her final benediction. That scent of heather... "Severus, don't forget. A life debt is binding in both directions. You cannot reject one any more than you can stop one from forming in the first place. It's some of the oldest, strongest magic there is, and if need be, you can call on it to protect the both of you..."

Memories of that night in the Shrieking Shack flooded him, the visceral sensations more than the visual recollections. Hermione's magic, lambent and warm, slipping under his skin and sinking deep into his bones. The first tendrils of their connection had felt comforting, welcoming, and then they'd pulled tighter...

And those tendrils were still there!

He yanked at them, hard, and felt a welcome brush of her. _Hermione, love, come to me!_ he thought, and pulled ever more quickly at the fraying bonds. For an instant there was blackness, and then she was there with him in the deep water. Joy and relief shot through him, and there was a corresponding surge of relief from her. The line between them blurred then, and there was no I, just... us. Like rapidly flickering pictures, he saw brief snapshots of her memories and emotions and knew that she was experiencing the same with his past.

Out of nowhere, a force seized them, and they were expelled from the wards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lack of posting as of late; life was rather life-y and this fell by the wayside as a result. I'll be updating quickly now as we are so close to the end!


	14. Sanctuary

**_Chapter 14_ **

He woke on the floor, curled tightly around Hermione. Sitting up and pulling her into his lap, he ran shaking hands over her still form, checking for injuries. Her lip was bleeding from where she had bitten it, but other than that she appeared unharmed.

"Hermione..." he croaked, shaking her by shoulders. It produced no response, and he became aware of the hideous vulnerability that came from sitting on the floor, unprotected back turned to the Restricted Section. He thought they were safe, but as much as he wanted to leave the Library, he knew that in order to exit the space they would have to cross in front of the Restricted Section again. He was under no illusion that they could withstand another assault; therefore, the best plan was to retreat further into the library and reassess the situation. Slinging her over his shoulder, he made his way to one of the window alcoves. If things grew dire, they could escape that way, but angled at it was, the book provided both cover and a good view of the front half of the room.

Propping her limp body up in the window seat, Snape turned and started placing as many protective shields and charms as he could manage in such a space. Several minutes later, he felt reasonably sure that they were as safe as was possible, and he returned his attention to Hermione.

She still had yet to move, and a line of bright blood ran down her chin, emphasising the delicate porcelain quality of her skin. Wiping the crimson trail from her chin, Snape tried calling her name again, with the same response.

" _Rennervate_ ," he said, brandishing his wand at her. That did the trick, finally; eyes fluttering, she stirred and moaned as she gingerly moved her head about.

Gaze focusing, she said his name. "Severus..?" He was nearly unmanned by the wave of relief that hit him then and cupped her face in his hands.

"Are you alright?" he choked.

She nodded as tears started to run down her cheeks. Severus crushed her to his chest as she began to cry; stroking her back and hair, he murmured comforting nonsense that slowly served to calm the both of them.

Hermione gave a little hiccup and pulled away slightly. "Oh, Severus, that was horrid. It... when I fell in, I could feel it leaching my magic out, bit by small bit... your poor librarian, she's been in there for days..."

"We'll find her, I promise. We'll get her out," he vowed, wrapping one of her delicate hands into his.

"What happened?" she asked, voice firmer as tears receded.

"About the time you... lost consciousness, Hogwarts' protections kicked and shielded me somewhat from that... energy," he paused, not knowing what to call the attack. "That, and something else augmented my magic, and I was successfully able to push back. Then I sort of... forced myself into the wards."

He stared down at her and felt an echo of that fear sound within him again. "I almost couldn't find you..." Snape stopped, the hot burn of his own tears making him blink furiously. "But then I remembered Minerva mentioning that a life debt could pull both ways; I used that connection to locate you."

Concern clouded her features; gripping his hand tightly, Hermione blurted, "Severus... that ought not to have worked... are sure that you aren't hurt?"

Her lovely hands moved then and began patting him all over, a hurried check for injury or harm.

Her question- her instinctual reaction- was like a pole-axe to the heart. For her to be worried enough to ask that, despite the many ways and times that he'd wronged her... oh, how he loved her! The knowledge hit him with all the dizzying warmth of a dozen shots of the best Firewhisky and a fierce welling of protectiveness filled him; nothing had ever felt so important, or so fragile as her well-being and happiness.

"I'm fine," he whispered. "Just fine, now."

Later, he couldn't recall who had made the first move, but it hardly mattered. His lips met hers, and he gladly surrendered to the delirious desire of that moment. Tongue delving into her sweet mouth, hands twining about her wild curls, Snape pulled her face all the closer, while her hands clutched at the linen of his shirt, at his sides, arching his back as she ran her nails down the narrow length of his hips.

Even as she yielded to him, and demanded yet more in return, it wasn't nearly enough. He wanted to feel the silky heat of her skin pressed into his; wanted to learn the taste of her arousal, hear her gasp and moan as he thrust into her wetness. In a life full of regrets and unanswered prayers, he had never wanted someone as much as he wanted her.

It wasn't just his cock that had gone rigid with need; his entire body had gone stiff, hands verging on rough as he held her. Pulling back in a deliberate effort to calm himself, he looked down. A fresh bead of blood dotted her lower lip and chin, the metallic taste of it echoed in his own mouth. He licked his lips, relishing the taste.

"Hermione..." he ground out, not sure if it was plea or warning.

Unbelievably, a smile blossomed on her face, and she reached out and smoothed a thumb over his unbroken bottom lip. Severus stood stock-still, hardly daring to move lest she remembered that she wasn't supposed to be touching him in such fashion. His breath had been reduced to short pants, and he saw with greedy satisfaction that her rapid inhalations matched his. Intercepting a lingering swipe, Snape sucked her fingertip into his mouth, holding her gaze as he did so. He nipped and laved; her eyes fluttered shut, and she gasped.

When her eyes opened again, there was a determination in their amber depths that made him shiver with anticipation. She yanked at his shirt, smiling flaring wider at the sound of several buttons popping. Hermione ran her hands up and down his bare chest, scraping her short, wonderful nails against his nipples. The sensation was electric, a current of hard lust streaking between them and his balls; hands shooting out, he tugged her back to him and angled his mouth possessively over hers.

Her purple robe had fallen open to reveal a plain white t-shirt; he could see the darker circles of her areolas plainly through the cotton fabric. Impatience seized him then, and pressing a shaking hand to her flat stomach, he wordlessly Vanished it.

She laughed. "Show off."

"For you, yes," he admitted with a quick grin of his own.

Her skin was just as smooth as he'd remembered it, and he eyed the firm, round curves of her breasts with appreciation. He bent his head to worship her, glorying her taste - the tang of sweat melding into something sweeter, a hint of almonds and spice. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh as he flicked his tongue over a stiff nipple. Deft hands carded through his hair, and he made no effort hide the sounds of his enjoyment as she stroked and petted him.

Finally, he broke contact, the wet 'pop' of his mouth leaving her skin magnified by the otherwise quiet of the window nook. She looked as dazed as he felt. The last rays of sunlight lit her from behind, painting her with a golden brilliance that was almost painful to behold. _You don't deserve her,_ a cold voice intruded. _You are just taking advantage of her... again._

The thought was enough to make him rear back and drop his hands.

"Severus?" she questioned, reading only rejection in his regard.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered. "Not here, not now. I never meant it to go this far..."

"I did," Hermione replied, a sudden anger causing the flush her face and chest to deepen. "I want you. I need you."

"Hermione..." he tried again but was unable to come up with anything that didn't make him sound like a besotted fool, or that he was refusing her outright. Because while his blood hummed with desire and need, and yes, love, he wasn't so sure about hers. For although she did care about him - her earlier question and concern making that obvious - she cared about everyone. And while she had forgiven him, it didn't necessarily follow that it was a prelude to anything deeper.

Twenty minutes earlier, they'd both been fighting for their lives; he'd be damned if all he got of her was a frantic shag owing to the heat of the moment.

Something in her expression shifted then, shutting him out.

That look destroyed his better intentions; he could no more see her hurt than he could stand either of them walking away again. He would have to trust her. Trust that even if her feelings were not equal to his, she would be kind. Trust his own instincts, and not unduly favour his supposedly rational objections.

_And you die right now, at least you'll die a happy man..._

His body was both marked and Marked; there had never been much to recommend it anyway, and almost twenty years of labouring under the aegis of Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore had not improved matters any. His wintry skin was a patchwork of scars, and had taken on a leathery quality as he approached middle age. The only things that could not be described as average were his nose, his intelligence and his temper; he possessed more than his fair share of those.

But for all the negatives, there remained one overwhelming positive: Hermione wanted him.

The satiny surface of her cheek had cooled somewhat when he reached down to cup it. "Such as it is, I am yours." He pushed the self-loathing away, clinging instead to the sensation of her mouth pressing against his in a long, ardent kiss.

She clutched at a handful of shirt and he shrugged out of it, jerking his arms free of the sleeves and pitching it away. Her eyes, made fathomless by the last rays of sunlight, dilated. His hands stroked the elegant curves and flowing line of waist and hip. In response, a feminine thigh pressed between his legs, hard against his erection, driving him past what little reason was left.

He abandoned her mouth with an awkward haste and began working at the buttons keeping her body from him. She moved under his touch, unconscious, searching movements, battering his overtired body with stimulation, making him even clumsier. Finally, skirt loosened, he stripped her of the offending garment and tossed it to the ground.

No sooner had he bared her luscious little body than he felt her hands fumbling at his trousers, tugging at the fastening. He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw as she worked at her task, and then he felt himself spring free of the confining fabric. Reached down to yank off his belt and trousers, he waited, his breath stopped, heart thundering in his ears.

The urge to cover himself was strong; he did not like to stand bare in front anyone. He was a creature of darkness, had always been. But Severus could not hide from her, not again, and expect to keep Hermione in his life. And so he stood in front of her, if not with confidence, then at least with a measure of acceptance.

"Please," she whispered and reached eagerly for him. There was an odd mixture of tenderness and ruthless hunger in her expression, and she made a soft purr of satisfaction as she wrapped her hand around his cock. Delicate and strong, she gripped at it, and began to tug and squeeze at him; a sheen of sweat broke out on his back and his knees started to feel weak as she increased the pressure.

He felt a hot puff of breath on his navel. Looking down, he saw her tongue dart out and start to tease the trail of hair at its base; Hermione was leaning forward on the window bench, the graceful curve of her spine punctuated by the lush swells of her bum. The unrelenting pressure building between his legs became suddenly too much.

"Hermione," he groaned and pulled her hands and mouth away.

"Too much?" she asked coyly as she rose to her feet.

He didn't answer, just cupped his hands around her bottom and brought her up; she let out a moan as he pressed himself intimately against her, the friction between his hard shaft and her moist curls tantalizing the both of them. Rocking his hips forward several times, he teased her for a long moment, letting the head of his shaft rub against her opening.

"Severus," she echoed, voice demanding, hitching a leg over his hip in clear invitation.

"Too much?" he breathed, and without waiting for her reply, thrust into her.

Hissing at the feeling of the hot interior of her body tightening around him, Snape had to look away then, lest he lose it then and there; her hand, spread low along his belly, was shaking with need. Sliding his hands down to her thighs, he moved her higher upon his body, and she arched her shoulders against the wall at her back. Her mouth sought his, and he kissed her deeply, slowly plunging his tongue in rhythm with each thrust of his cock.

Dimly, he became aware of magic ghosting around and between them; Hermione's eyes widened as she saw it, then narrowed. "Did... do you still have the Castle wards open?" she panted.

"Yes," he bit out. "And I'm not stopping to close them..."

Even as he drove harder into her, he could see her mind move away from sensation and start to analyse the phenomena around them. Grinning suddenly, she laughed, husky and delighted.

"You brilliant man." She pulled his head down for another kiss and then bit his lip, hard.

"What was that for?" he gasped, licking the blood away.

"Trust me." Her eyes had gone intent again, ruthless and full of lust. She reached up and ran her index finger over her cut, and then traced the bloody digit in a complicated circle on his chest.

As he stared at her, utterly dumbfounded, it occurred to him that it hadn't been a mindless doodle at all, but rather the pattern of a rune. He stopped moving, and closed his eyes, trying to force enough blood to his brain to be able to think properly. It was the mate to the rune that he had been using all day to pull the various sections of the library into the wider web of Hogwarts... except hers had been claiming him as part of the collection. Understanding started to dawn.

"Got it now?" she teased.

"We'll find out," he murmured, and with a swipe of his blood, drew his rune onto the perfect curves of her breasts. The magic around them swirled tighter, grew brighter; with a flare of power, the runes flashed.

"Mine," he growled and began to move again, driving his hips into her, the dance as old as the magic in the air.

"More," Hermione panted, matching his rhythm.

"You want more?" he repeated, voice gone ragged. "Say my name!"

"Severus," she cried out. "Oh, Severus, please..."

The feminine weight of her pressed around his hips, the slick heat of her body wrapped around him was almost too great too bear. Hermione leaned forward again, lips and teeth finding the network of scars on his neck, and his vision narrowed to just her face, inches away from his.

Their eyes met and held, and the enormity of the moment seemed to take over. Hermione threw her head back, and he felt a shudder start to ripple through her; then it was he groaning her name, his cock moving deeper inside her, and her sheath squeezing tightly in response. He heard his own full-throated cry as he drove in the final thrust of release, straining and shuddering in ecstasy.

* * *

They remained fused together like that for several long, throbbing minutes, their skin warm and salty with mingled perspiration. Finally, Snape shifted, feeling like it was that or drop Hermione; with a muted sigh, he switched their positions so he was sitting in the window nook, and she was straddling his lap.

He nearly fell asleep, rousing only when Hermione mumbled a question.

"Hmmm?" he inquired.

"I said, who was the Headmaster when Irma Pince took over?" she asked, sounding more alert with each word.

"Who was what?" He blinked down at her, wondering how she had enough functioning brain cells to go on with it.

"Who was the Headmaster that hired Irma?" she repeated, sounding faintly impatient.

It was a considerable effort, but he dredged the pertinent information up. "Armando Dippet."

She subsided against him, curls tickling the bottom of his chin. "Well, that makes a lot more sense than Dumbledore..."

He pried his eyes open all the way. "Woman, what are you going on about?"

She laughed. "I think I've figured out the problem." Kissing him lightly, she clarified. "What the missing step was, why your librarian never was really able to bring the collection under her thumb."

"And does that have something to do with that surprising little bit of blood magic that you sprung on me?" he asked, recalling the runes they'd painted on each other.

"It does. I think the reason why Mistress Morel had so many problems is that the new set of protections were never integrated into the Castle's protections; it required more than the Head's blessing... it required active participation as well."

He thought about her statement. "So you are telling me that Dippet and Madame Pince...?" He stopped, not wanting to follow the question to its conclusion.

"Shagged like drunken nifflers somewhere in this library? Yes, they must have done. I don't know of any other blood rites that would have done the trick. Well, short of murder..."

"Thank you for that mental image," he said crisply, and then shivered as his back came too close to the now dark and cold pane of glass.

"So, do most libraries..." he started, curiosity piqued as he pondered the implications of her statement.

"No," she chuckled. "Good lord, no. I think it has to do with the size and content of this collection, as well as the fact that it's in a place where magical spells are both frequent and uncontrolled. Most collections this size aren't subjected to that much strain."

"Good to know."

"Can you feel the difference?" Hermione asked, running an idle hand down his arm.

"Quite a difference," he replied with smirk.

She punched him lightly in the bicep. "Not that."

He closed his eyes and focused; the library did indeed feel... different, and he could sense it clearly within the Castle's wards, something he'd not been able to do until there was an issue. "Yes, I can."

"It's safe now."

"So no more archaic creepy-crawlies, or mass attacks of household pests?" he inquired dryly.

"No more than usual," she retorted. "This is Hogwarts, after all."

"May I humbly suggest we move somewhere... warmer, then?"

"A most excellent suggestion." She rose, and he shivered at the sudden loss of her warmth. Picking up her skirt and his shirt, she passed the latter item to him and then started to peer into the jumble of robes still on the floor.

"You not only Vanished my shirt but my second-best pair of knickers," she accused as she went through the pile.

"Whoops." He was not at all repentant. "Why were you wearing your second-best pair of knickers, anyway?"

Hermione paused and glanced away for a brief instant. "Because if something... happened, I'd be damned if they'd find me in anything less-than-flattering." She pursed her lips. "You weren't wearing pants if my memory serves."

He pulled up his trousers and stood. "It does. Heaven forbid I appear in something less-than-flattering."

"Why aren't we the cocky sort?" she said with some humour, straightening her own skirt. She handed Severus the sword, and he buckled the sheath back on.

She was so adorable standing there, clad in demure heels and skirt, but starkers from the waist up. Severus bent down and kissed her. "That's the point, I've been told."

Hermione didn't say anything, just started to fasten the few remaining buttons left on his shirt, a satisfied smile playing on her face.

As he stood there, quiescent, he became aware of another, subtle difference. He could no longer feel the life debt he owed Hermione.

"The life debt... is gone," he stated haltingly

"I'd hope so, after all those heroics," Hermione asserted firmly, and after shrugging her robe over her shoulders reached down and took his hand. She didn't appear to be at all rattled by the news; if anything he could detect a frisson of relief in her countenance.

It was a trite sentiment, but he felt like a new man; without the burden of the life debt, he was altogether rather free. Experimentally pushing at the Hogwarts wards, he took stock of the differences. Free, and rather oddly... alone.

"Minerva," he breathed, a lurch of dread shaking him. "I can't feel Minerva in the wards..."

Hermione's hands tightened convulsively around his, and frantically, he shoved at the wards, desperately seeking her comforting presence.

There was nothing, and he suddenly recalled the sensation of heather and a cool breeze.

"No," he exclaimed and whirled towards the door, Hermione a half-step behind him.

The rapid pound of his feet was only matched by the roar of his heart. Skidding around the final corner, he threw open the door to the staff room and burst inside.

He saw Poppy first, kneeling at the foot of Minerva's favourite overstuffed, floral print chair. Tears rolled down the Healer's face, beset with a terrible grief. Unbelieving, he stumbled forward and looked up into the seat.

Minerva's expression was peaceful, and strangely triumphant.

"No..." he said again, the words barely making past the rock in his throat. "No, Minerva, it wasn't supposed to be like this..."

* * *

 


	15. Queen of the Castle

_**Chapter 15** _

Hermione reached futilely for Severus as he fell to his knees, desolation ravaging his features. The sound of his body hitting the stone floor was painfully loud, and she felt a wave of sorrow hit her as she took in the scene before her.

 _Oh, Minerva_ , she thought as grief continued pounding at her. Hermione recalled the Headmistress as she saw her the very first hour at Hogwarts; the sharp emerald eyes and formal manner not detracting from the warmth of her smile as she greeted the first years. There was the thrill and awe of Transfiguration when Minerva had changed into a tabby. Minerva's approving - and smug - smile as they'd beaten Slytherin at Quidditch... and then her stern disapproval when she'd caught them breaking the rules. Quiet moments in her office, asking questions... Her steadfast leadership in the time after Dumbledore's death, and her utter ferocity as she'd defended the school during the Final Battle...

She didn't bother to hide her flood of her tears and for a distressingly long moment, Hermione thought that Severus was also going to break down right then and there; face buried in his hands, he remained motionless on the floor for almost a minute.

His head finally came up, and he stiffly started to pull himself to his feet. Hermione helped him the rest of the way, and they stood facing each other.

Severus resembled nothing more than a battered knight; lip still swollen from where she'd bitten him, clothing and hair askew, Godric Gryffindor's sword still hanging from his hip. She wanted to comfort him and was reaching forward just as he leaned down and cupped her face gently. He seemed on the verge of saying something before changing his mind; she watched his expression go cold and remote, all trace of grief and personality erased. He turned from her and addressed Filius. "We need to summon the Board of Governors."

* * *

The next few hours were a blur. Severus carried Minerva's body to the Hospital Ward, and then left as the Governors of the school arrived. She sat vigil with Poppy, sepulchral silence only broken when Pomona joined them.

"Hermione," the herbology professor murmured, blotting her wet face with a tissue. "You'd better go change. They are almost done interviewing Severus, and they'll want to speak with you next."

"I... right," she said, mind gone utterly blank. With a flush, she realized that she'd been sitting, half-naked but for her outer robe, for the better part of several hours; lord only knew what the rest of her looked like.

This seemed to stir Poppy as well. "Why don't you come with me? You can use my rooms to get freshened up, and we can have one of the house elves bring you a new outfit."

She nodded and made her way to Poppy's private quarters. She ended up showering and was surprised to see how beat-up she appeared in the mirror. There was a clear lovebite on her neck, as well as a myriad of other bruises and cuts littering her face and arms. She looked like she'd been in a battle, and after a bit of reflection, she supposed that she had.

 _And now what?_ she thought, a muddle of emotions twisting in her gut painfully. _I expected this day to be long. I expected it to be trying… but not anything like this._ Hermione wanted nothing more than to sink into a quiet, warm bed, and pretend that day had not happened until she'd found some steady ground in her mind again. _Well, I'd like to wish away most of the day,_ she amended, recalling the heat of Severus' body against hers, and the emotion in his eyes as he had taken her. _But not all of it. That may… complicate matters between us- especially with the changes affecting the Library- and_ _I have no idea what any of that meant if anything,_ _but I'm not going to just run away this time if things get ugly…_

The resolution made, Hermione picked a comb with a mental wince and went to work on her hair.

* * *

Hermione was just emerging from the bathroom when Snape entered; he was marginally less disreputable than before, clad in familiar sweeping black robes. The lines of strain and stress had returned to his face; he appeared altogether the grim, bitter professor of her youth.

"I am sorry to ask this of you right now, but the Board of Governors and the Ministry needs to speak with you." The words reverberated oddly in the stone space; there was nothing of the man in the flat delivery.

"Of course," she responded, and stepped forward.

They walked together to the conference room, both rendered mute by events and sheer exhaustion. But right before they reached the door, Severus stuck out a hand and stopped her.

"I cannot be there when they interview you."

Hermione nodded, having expected that. "I know. Poppy and Pomona briefed me as to what I should expect."

"Good." He swallowed, jaw working. "I told them about the blood magic; I had to. But I did not tell them about the... rest. They are not idiots; they understand ritual magic as well as anyone and can read between the lines. But they'll not press you on details. Potter is the Ministry representative."

"Thank God for small favours," she said, relieved that she'd not have explain absolutely everything and that there would be at least one friendly face in the crowd. "And thank you for keeping the other part... private."

"I rather thought we both have had far too much of our personal lives splashed about for public consumption," he replied gravely.

"Severus…" she said and placed a hand on his arm. "I am not ashamed by what happened between us."

Something flickered through his eyes at that, but he only nodded and rapped sharply on the door.

The door immediately swung open, revealing the patrician and unwelcome figure of Lucius Malfoy. Instinctively, Hermione stepped back, a wave of cold shock - and bad memories - washing through her. The man gave her a chilly and censorious glare, and she felt one of Severus' arms come up and encircle her waist protectively.

"Miss Granger." His precise, measured and poncey diction had not changed. "Why don't you come in?"

Her chin came up, but other than that, she did not move. "It's Mistress Granger, not miss."

The man gave her a mocking bow. "Of course, how could I be so remiss as to forget that important fact. Naturally, you would carry the title of mistress, after all that... hard work." The last words were said with a subtle leer, insinuation obvious.

The man might be a condescending, scheming, rat bastard, but thanks to the march of time and his own stupidity, he also no longer held the power or influence that he once had. Hermione gave a harsh bark of laughter at his weak attempt to bully her.

"I wouldn't forget it, if I were you, Mr Malfoy. Because like many a mistress," she smiled, letting her teeth show, "I have friends in high places."

Without waiting for his reaction, she swept past him, Severus angling his body so that she was not only protected by his arm, but he was between her and rest of the room.

Rather than deposit her in the lone chair at the centre of the table, Severus guided her to his own chair at the head, a tall, imposing throne of darkest ebony, inlaid with runes. Courteously, and with great ceremony, he pulled the chair out for her and helped her to settle in it comfortably.

He stopped then, one hand resting possessively on her shoulder, and gazed challengingly out at the remainder of the Governors. Slowly, he made eye contact with each of them, meaning clear. The last person he stared at was Harry.

To her surprise, his manner shifted slightly. He gave her best friend a shallow bow, with only a hint of mockery in it; if anything his look seemed to suggest that Severus was counting on Harry to protect her in his absence. There was no visible reaction from Harry for a moment; then he was gazing at her, something bittersweet in his regard. Giving Severus a subtle tilt of his head, Harry watched them for another instant and then transferred his attention back to the sheaf of papers in front of him.

Severus turned to her, hand remaining on her shoulder. "I shall be in the corridor if you have need of me."

"Thank you," she murmured. He gave her shoulder a final squeeze, and then swiftly left the room, shutting the door silently behind him.

"Gentlemen," Hermione intoned, letting her gaze sweep imperiously over them. If Severus was going to set her up as queen of his castle, she was damn well going to take advantage of that fact. "I will answer your questions now..."

* * *

It was a brutal three hours.

Matters remained relatively civil until about halfway through the proceedings, when Malfoy started to suggest that she did not understand enough about Dark Magic to have taken the proper precautions; his inference - that she was a Muggle, as well as a woman, and thus did not have the traditional respect or talent for the Dark Arts - gained significant traction as the questioning went on.

She finally shot that notion down with a rather personal - and mean-spirited jab - at Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy," she stated, arching a dismissive brow at him. "Muggle I may be, but I was exposed to Dark Magic - specifically the power of Dark tomes - at a very early age. I assume that you can still recall giving Ginevra Potter a certain textbook from your own collection?" She let the question linger in the air, and had the satisfaction of watching the man go florid with ill-disguised ire. "Then, of course, there is the matter of the rest of Tom Riddle's Horcruxes... I don't believe that I need to go into details about my involvement in both hunting them down and destroying them. My Order of Merlin, First Class, should adequately speak for that period of my life..."

He did not choose to present any further questions after that.

Finally, the Board seemed to run out of things to ask, and she was dismissed. To her surprise, it wasn't merely Severus waiting for her, but the Chief Librarian as well.

The woman gave her a fierce if brief hug. "You did well. The Headmaster," and she nodded towards Severus, "told me what happened. I've spent the last hour inspecting the wards, and they are exemplary. I could not have done any better, or any different."

"Thank you," Hermione said, feeling a surge of emotion and exhaustion hit her then. "Your daughter?"

This produced a quick smile. "Is well, and the proud mother to a strapping young lad with a rather healthy set of lungs."

"Good," she murmured, leaning against the wall for support.

The Chief's expression clouded with sorrow. "I am sorry for your loss, Hermione. Truly..."

Hermione could only nod again, unable to come up with the proper platitudes.

Severus walked out of the conference room. "Chief Anderson, if you could join us..."

"Of course," the woman replied crisply.

"Hermione," he started quietly, "go to bed. It's half-past eleven already."

She'd meant to go back to the Hospital Ward, but she realized that she was perilously close to dropping. "Which way?"

Severus spoke. "Winky?"

A house-elf popped into the corridor next to them. "Yes, Headmaster?"

"Please escort Mistress Granger to her bedchambers."

The house-elf gave a quick bob. "Yes, Headmaster."


	16. Omnia Vincit Amor

When Hermione crawled into her four-poster bed, she found that she could not fall asleep, nor shut off the chaotic mess of her mind. She lay there, comfortably ensconced in warm flannel, eyes burning and gut churning, for what seemed like ages.

There were the obvious unresolved matters of the Library and Hogwarts former Librarian; Hermione had no idea how they were going to find what remained of Noémi Morel in the wards, and she did not think that Severus realized that they had not just defeated the unchecked power in the stacks, but had completely bound it to her. And then there was Severus himself.

A memory of his hands streaking over her body, dark eyes intent with lust and… something else came to her then, and Hermione found herself curling up into a tighter ball on the bed. She had been telling the truth when she'd told him that she wasn't embarrassed about what they had done, but nevertheless, her motives had been far different than his when they'd….

 _Made love? Had sex..?_ It hadn't been either of those for her, not really, but something stuck in the middle. She had been terrified, the sensation of her magic being forcibly stripped from her still pressing at her. Hermione had needed to feel alive, and feel connected to her own body, her own magic. It had not just been the simple the reassurance of sex that she had wanted- she had wanted Severus- but the why of it remained, even now, a jumbled mess in her mind.

 _I want him in my life, I know that much. But any more than that? I have to know that he can be honest about his emotions and wants, because lord knows I'm struggling with all of this…_ She sighed, shifting again. _I am not going to be able sort any of this out without taking to him, and that will likely have to wait until morning. I need to sleep..._

But oblivion didn't come, even when her thoughts had calmed somewhat. Just as she had given it up as a lost cause, there was the faintest suggestion of noise from the hallway and Hermione jerked upright at the soft knock on her door. Swinging her legs to the floor, she lit the candle at the bedside table and moved hastily to the door. Opening it, she saw Severus.

His form blended into the darkness of the corridor, the alabaster of face and hands the only areas standing out in the shifting night.

"May I come in?" he asked, voice gone rough.

"Of course," she answered, and pulled him into her chambers. He wobbled a bit then, and as he stepped into the candlelight, she could see the terrible cost that the evening had wrought on him. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the shadows under - and indeed, in them - were deep. His grief was a palpable thing, and she felt her own emotions waver in solidarity.

"Come sit," she murmured, pushing him into the chair by the fire. With a muttered spell, she lit the fire, welcoming the first tendrils of heat that sprang from the crackling flames. Turning back to Severus, she was shocked to see twin rivers of tears coursing down his face.

He was crying.

The sight rendered her still for a long moment; then she stepped forward and clutched him to her flannel-clad stomach, stroking his head and hair in mute support.

He made no sound but for the first, ragged, gasp, merely sobbing silently, hands gently clasping her waist. She cried with him, and for him; for what was, and what might have been.

Eventually, he gave a little sigh, and turned his cheek so that it was resting on her stomach, rather than pressing into it. She peered down at his dark head, the ivory of her own hands contrasting strongly with the fine filaments of his black hair.

"Better now?" she whispered, and he glanced up.

"Hermione..."

She saw the apology in his expression before he could fully get it out, and interrupted it. "Don't you dare apologize to me, Severus Snape. On this day you've done nothing to warrant it."

A bemused regard flowed through his face at that chastisement, and he reached out and took her right hand. Bringing it to his lips, he lightly kissed her knuckles, onyx eyes never leaving hers. "As you wish."

"Oh, Severus," she mused. "What a night..."

He gave her another gentle tug, and she settled gratefully into the sanctuary of his lap, hands twining about together, tucking her head under his chin. They sat like that for some time, the crackle of the fire and calm beat of his heart serving to steady her own jumble of thoughts. The air grew pleasantly warm, the flickering firelight granting the illusion that they were wrapped in a safe, small bubble.

Hermione felt sleep start to slip over her, and stirred reluctantly when Severus finally spoke. "They have re-confirmed me as Headmaster. Not that there was much they could do about it; I've been the Head for over a decade now..."

"How many of them realized that, do you think?"

He snorted. "Lucius, certainly. I think most of them did, truth be told, and just chose to not make an issue out of it. That was easy enough, with Minerva at the helm."

"One did not easily stand in her way," she affirmed.

"No," he agreed, voice a comforting bass rumble against her ear. "The funeral will be on Friday."

He stopped, hands tightening imperceptibly on hers. "The Board also voted eleven to one to offer you the position of Head Librarian. Charlotte Anderson made it very clear that the collection had yielded to you, and it would take quite a bit of work to transfer it over to another person. She also said to tell you ' _bon courage_ '."

Hermione was surprised, and a little touched that her erstwhile mentor had enough confidence to recommend her for the post. She knew that she was quite young to take over an entire collection, especially one the size and complexity of Hogwarts.

"And what of the Headmaster?" she asked, shifting slightly so she could see his face. "Does he likewise wish the appointment?"

"Bugger the Headmaster, Hermione," he hissed fiercely. "I don't care about all that. I want you here; in my castle, in my life... in my bed. I will take of you whatever you are willing to give."

He stopped then, ghosts dancing between them. "Stay, please..."

She was forcibly reminded of another late night conversation, of paths not taken. He'd been unable to articulate his needs and wants then; unable to even break the barrier of formality and call her by her first name. For her part, Hermione had been so overwhelmed- by everything- that she had no notion about what she really wanted. She had left, knowing that any burgeoning sentiment between them was not enough to bridge that gap. And now?

"Why?" she asked, deliberately calling forth the memories of that night.

"Because I love you," He did not hesitate, and she could see the sincerity of it in his eyes. "I have done very little to recommend myself, and much to hurt you over the years..." he stopped then, a vulnerable, pregnant pause. "I cannot say that I have changed totally. I am still the man that I was... but I would like to think that I have grown. It won't be all sunshine and roses," a hint of wry smile appeared at that. "But I will not waver in my affection or constancy to you. I won't walk away, and I promise to always try to make things better... to be a better person."

"And if I decline the position at Hogwarts?" she inquired softly.

His thumb stroked along the fleshy part of her palm, the small intimacy of it only heightened by his words. "Then let me come to you. I meant what I said. I want a life with you."

"And if I decline even that?" Her voice was barely audible over the crackle and hiss of burning wood. She felt wretched for asking, but needed to hear his answer; needed him to be able to even articulate that.

"Then..." he stopped again, and closed his eyes. Hermione was quite sure that when he met her gaze again, it would be under the protective shields of his Occlumency. However, when he opened them, his eyes were still swimming with all the unguarded emotions of before. "Then, I would hope that you would remember me with perhaps... a greater measure of fondness. Should you ever require any assistance, I only ask that you do not hesitate to summon me."

Her heart pounded unsteadily in her chest, and for a moment, she was seized by fear and uncertainty. Here was a man who could break her heart, and hurt her very badly, she knew; but then, she also had the ability to do the same to him... had done the same… She recalled the brief flood of his feelings she had gotten when he'd saved her from the wards, and the sheer depth of that sentiment had been a revelation to her. And his openness now…

Oddly, it was Harry's words that came to her. "Ginny is my future... what we have - it's so wonderful, and I want you to find that someday."

 _I want him to be my future. I want to make this work between us._ she thought, and it seemed like that part of her that had been dormant for too long finally cracked open. In spite of his faults - and hers, for she had just as many - he would take care of her, and defend her if called upon; she would do the same for him. They could grow together, grow old and happy.

"Hermione," he said, and his tone wavered a bit on her name. "What do you want?"

There was still much to settle between them, she knew. But the morning would be soon enough to speak of the day's sorrows, to speak of Minerva… for the moment she just wanted to comfort him, and be comforted in the knowledge that would face the coming day together.

She rose with some difficulty from the chair, as intertwined as they were. "You." She kissed the deep furrow above the bridge of his nose. "I want you, and your castle, and most definitely, your library." She smiled down at him. "But tonight, I want you in my bed. Come lie with me, Severus."

He stood, just as stiffly as she had, the firelight gilding him with an aura of rebirth. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed not to find any words. Finally, he bent down and kissed her, and she could feel his passion and joy, exhaustion and grief, but mostly, an abiding need for her.

"To bed," she ordered, seeing his answering smile. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, and began to unbutton his robes. But whether it be from his sheer tiredness, or perhaps the stress of the day, his fingers could not manage to undo the small black buttons.

"Will you let me?" Hermione murmured, placing a quelling hand on his chest.

He shifted his legs apart wider so she could stand between them. "Gladly," he replied, the barest smirk appearing.

She took her time undressing him, enjoying the freedom of being able to touch him as she pleased with no need to rush matters. His throat, when revealed, required a wet kiss, as did the lean pale planes of his chest when it came into view. Severus did not move except at her direction, his gaze growing hotter with each flick of a button and pull of fabric. Gently, she tugged his frock coat off him, and folding it neatly, placed it on the rack by the wardrobe.

Reaching for his belt buckle, she felt a shiver dance down her back at the soft, metallic clink of it coming undone. Similarly, the sinuous whisper of the leather sliding through his belt loops served to raise her heart rate; raking her gaze over him, she considered what to do next.

"Boots next, I think." She started to bend down to loosen the knee-high leather when his voice, silky and low, stopped her.

"Take off your nightgown, Hermione. I would like to see you."

With a quiet whoosh, she pulled the thick flannel fabric over her head, and laid it next to his robes. Her nipples puckered, more from the heat of his regard than any effect of the cool night air; standing naked before him, she felt like she was beautiful enough to launch a thousand ships of her own, to be the first Hermione, the well-known daughter to Helen of Troy.

"Boots," she repeated, unwilling to be distracted further. She knelt, and grasped his right ankle in her hands. He pulled at just the right time, the boot coming off easily. They repeated the procedure, and then she stood again. Her fingers, on the placket of his trousers, were no longer steady.

"Still no pants, I see," she said after a moment.

"No." His smirk was full-grown. "Nothing unflattering there."

"Indeed," she ran a hand down his hip, and paused to cup his bum experimentally, liking the feel of dense flesh under her palm. "Not so tired any more, either." Bending forward, she took him deep in her mouth, enjoying the salty musk of his arousal, and the sounds that he made as she pleasured him.

His legs were covered with a fine dusting of black hair, and she ran her free hand up and down the length of one, delighting in feeling the masculine lines and musculature of his thighs. Shifting, she stroked the base of his cock with her fingers while she sucked; it wasn't until she started to lightly tug at his balls, however, that his hips began to jerk sharply.

He finally stopped her with a gentle tug, and sat down upon the bed unsteadily. Face flushed and panting, he gasped, "I may be the stupidest man alive to refuse your attentions a second time, but I can promise you that I am only good for one round before I pass into unconscious."

With some regret, she rose. "Budge over," she said with good humour, and moved to get in the bed. He complied, and they lay together unmoving, the sounds of wood collapsing in the grate finally stirring them both out of their repose. Severus reached forward, and eased the long braid over her shoulder. He played with the end for a moment, and then looked at her, questioning.

"Go ahead," she chuckled, recalling his long ago fingering of her hair. "But I shan't be responsible for its condition come morning."

Silently, he unbound her hair and spread it over the pillows, hands carding through the curls with care.

"You are so lovely," he praised. "And wonderfully brilliant..."

She cut him off with a kiss, needing to feel his skin against hers; needing him more than any sweet words. They kissed, tongues and hand and legs intertwining together for some minutes. Then, as if by mutual accord, he shifted, rolling to his back, and she was sprawled upon him.

Slowly, languorously, she took him in her body, giving a satisfied groan when she settled down on his full, thick length. Placing her palms on his chest, she began to move over him, relishing in the decadent feeling of the firelight and the man underneath her.

Recalling their first fiery coupling, she drew a finger through the light smattering of hairs on his chest, giving him a teasing glance as she did so. As she completed the rune, she bent down and kissed the corner of his lip where she'd bitten it.

"Mine," she asserted, echoing his words.

"Yours," he confirmed, and thrust his hips up in a counterpoint to her movements. "More," he said, at turns teasing and serious.

She arched her back then, and his hands settled on her hips, intent. Her hair seemed to come alive, transformed into a cloud, stray curls tickling her back and caressing the tips of her breasts. He was silent, but his eyes gleamed bright in the dark of the room, full of love and wonder, and many things that she could not put words to.

It was her name, groaned guttural and deep, that sent her over the edge. She cried out as she came, and she felt his hips buck under hers as he emptied himself. Remaining motionless for almost a minute, all thoughts but one fell into obscurity.

"I love you," she said, the sentiment suddenly clear and easy in her mind as she sank down onto his chest with a grateful sigh. He stirred, hands tightening reflexively on her hips, and his eyes opened.

He smiled. "I love you, too." One brow went up in an interrogative manner, even as the rest of him seemed to slide into unconsciousness. "Now, go to sleep..."

She yawned once, and did.

* * *

In the office of the Headmaster, there was the soft flare of magic, and the sudden shifting of portraits upon the walls. A new picture appeared behind the big black desk, the frame made of a light, finely grained yew. The scene within in it was that of a wild and untamed moor, the rolling, heather-spotted crags falling into a dazzling sunlit loch.

A woman materialized within the painting; long black hair framed a decidedly strong and beautiful face. She shuddered once, and opening her vivid green eyes, gasped. Steadying herself, she froze and looked out into the office.

"What…" she breathed fear and understanding blooming on her face.

From the walls, there were the sounds of muted shuffling; fittingly, it was the last Slytherin Headmaster that finally spoke up.

"Welcome, Madame." Phineas Nigellus Black's voice was oddly gentle and respectful. "We salute you for your service to this school."

Minerva McGonagall's gaze shot up to the Slytherin's portrait, and then back down to her own shaking hands. For the first time in decades, they were smooth and unlined; taking another deep breath in, she registered that all of the aches and pains that had become her constant companions were no more.

For a moment, she said nothing. Her head twisted then, peering out upon the wall in frantic haste. "Severus..?" she cried, scanning the frames.

"He is well… and is not alone." The faintest smile tugged at the former Headmaster's expression. "Your fierce little lioness is with him. The school is also back to rights," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Thank God," Minerva breathed. "Oh, thank God… they are safe now." She started to weep in earnest then, and turned her back on the office to gaze on the purple hills of heather as the tears shook her.

"I think," she said after a time, having regained a measure of her composer back, "…that I shall go for walk."

It was Black that answered. "We shall be here when you return, Madame."

Minerva gave a sharp nod, and struck out swiftly towards the rippled blue waters of the loch. She stopped after only a few steps, however, and swivelled back around.

"Phineas… don't you think it's about time you finally called me Minerva? I would hate to began all of eternity by being annoyed at you."

He was silent for a moment before a smirk slowly spread across his expression. "I fear, Minerva, that no matter how I address you, you shall spend much of eternity annoyed at me. You might as well accept it. It is one of my better traits, after all."

She gave a watery chuckle. "That it is… Tell Severus…" she broke off again, and had to bite her lip to keep from crying anew. "…tell him that I will return in a few days. After… everything, I think I deserve a bit of holiday."

"I shall watch over him, never fear… both of them," he amended gravely. "Now go for your walk. It appears to a beautiful day."

"It is, isn't it?" Smoothing the dark green fabric of her dress over her slim hips, Minerva stuck a foot out and examined a boot. Sturdy and well made, they still managed to convey a certain feminine charm. They were perfect, really…

With a sudden swish, she began walking away, steps light and purposeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first multi-chapter story that I've finished, and I must admit that this chapter holds a special place in my heart. I do have a one-shot in mind- the rescue of Noémi Morel- and RL and plot bunnies willing, I'll get that written one of these days. :) 
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read and respond to this story; I've loved reading through the various reactions, and all your encouragement is what keeps me writing. I've got a couple of other stories that I'll be posting, so keep your eyes out if you enjoyed this one. Happy Reading!


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